


It Takes But A Moment

by maxbegone



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mutual Pining, Red String of Fate, Sibling Bonding, alexis rose is very smart, david rose is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26134957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxbegone/pseuds/maxbegone
Summary: The Red String Theory: two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break.David Rose wakes up with a painful red cut wrapping around his right pinky and no recollection of how he got it.--Or, a soulmate AU where David is disbelieving and Patrick shows him the way.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Theodore "Ted" Mullens/Alexis Rose
Comments: 187
Kudos: 331





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This marks my longest fic to-date. I'm a sucker for soulmate AUs and always have been. I wanted to write one, but I wanted to do something atypical -- hence the red string of fate theory. 
> 
> A special thanks to Rachel, [fishyspots](fishyspots.tumblr.com) for being my beta on this monster of a piece. Upon posting this first chapter, I just have the epilogue to write. 
> 
> I'll be posting every other day. I hope you enjoy.

There are two stacks of papers in front of him - artist submissions that he really needs to sift through - at least three inches high, four magazines with neon sticky-tabs marking the pages of articles Rose Galerie was featured in, an event he needs to finalize, and an empty coffee cup.

David sets his face in his hands and lets out a noise of exasperation. It echoes out in the office around him. 

A chorus of cars honking on the streets of Soho below him pulls David from his reverie. He leans back in his chair and looks out at the surrounding buildings. 

David Rose is in the greatest city in the world surrounded by opportunity, excellent food, clothing, and artwork. But all he wants to do right now is crawl under his beautiful wooden desk and take a nap. 

That is, until his door is kicked-down.

Okay, it’s not  _ kicked-down,  _ but the way Stevie opened it may as well have been done with the same amount of force.

She’s carrying a cardboard beverage tray and stops short upon entry.

“Are you okay?”

David groans again, his head digging into the back of the chair. “I can’t do it.”

Stevie, bless her, swings a chair around next to him, folding her blazer over the back. She hands David his coffee, discards his old one, and pushes his chair aside just enough to reach the stacks of applications. They’re prepping for a new exhibit at the end of the season, so they really need to get going on these submissions.

“Remember why you hired me, Rose.” 

He grimaces at her over his coffee. “Because you wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“No,” Stevie tsks, dropping the first application into the  _ NO _ bin. She starts scanning the next page. “Because you needed someone to reign you back in and someone who can help you with all of this.” She waves a hand at the stacks littering the desk, then smiles at David. 

He returns it, “Are you sure it wasn’t because you were so intrigued by my expansive artistic knowledge when you walked into the opening a few years ago?”

She scoffs, “No, it was actually the free-flowing champagne that was being hand-passed by models all night. I figured if I got hired, I’d also get booze.” 

“Well you  _ do  _ get booze,” David agrees, gingerly taking the submission form from Stevie. “I’m sure it was the joint, too.”

“Oh it was definitely the joint. That, and the fact that I really needed to get out of that fucking hotel job.” 

David sets the paper into the  _ YES _ bin. “The New Yorker was too fancy for you?”

“Fancy isn’t the right word.” Stevie kicks off her kitten heels, knocking them somewhere under the desk, and brings her legs to fold up underneath her. “Pretentious and full of tourists, maybe.” 

“Stevie, that’s every hotel in the city,” David prods with a half eye-roll. “It’s New York.”

“Yeah, yeah, city of dreams.” She hums with the cap of her pen in her mouth, then adds bluntly, “I was very much over it,” and they leave it at that.

This is their system; Stevie goes through the submissions first and only passes them along to David if she thinks he’ll like what’s on the page. Sometimes she conjures a joint from her bag, and it makes the grueling process easier.

For the last two years, Stevie has been a rock in David’s life. She keeps him from getting too overwhelmed with work, and ,when his family gets on his nerves, she’s right there with him letting him vent. Anytime Alexis disappears and scares the ever-living shit out of him, Stevie’s booking him a flight and helping him pack.

He’s never said it aloud, but he’s certain that Stevie’s his best friend. She never blows him off, she returns his snark right back, and David always knows where to find her; they live together, it’s easy. They moved in together five months after David offered her the position, Stevie needing a new place to stay and David very tired of living alone. Their casual hookups carried out for a short time until they both deemed the work-pleasure line too hard to see.

David brought Stevie aboard after hearing her sordid tales of working in the hospitality industry; she grew up in a small town in rural Ontario and worked at a roadside motel alongside her aunt throughout high school and college. The way she described it, David imagined a dingy, decrepit place filled with truckers and hookers, everything smelling like cigarettes.

He’s thrilled Stevie moved to New York, even more so that she stumbled into his gallery during opening weekend. She deserves a life bigger than that.

By four, takeout containers are scattered on the floor around them. Stevie’s lounged with her denim-clad legs over David’s lap, barefoot, as he sifts through the very last submission. She’s on her phone, more than likely playing solitaire or something, when David lets out a defining breath.

“Done,” he grins, “we’re fucking  _ done! _ ” 

She sets her phone down and digs a heel into David’s thigh. “That’s great! How many did you choose?”

“Uh...six. Six new artists.” He stretches, his back  _ pop-pop-popping  _ as his arms flexed up above his head. “We’ll call them and draw up contracts tomorrow, but I say we celebrate.”

“Is there any leftover champagne in the fridge?” Stevie hikes a thumb over her shoulder, moving to stand.

David waves a hand at her. “No, let’s go out. Let’s go somewhere, we haven’t done that in awhile.”

Stevie contemplates the idea for a moment, letting it drag out just to irk David, and nods. “I’m in.” 

**

They wind up arguing for forty-five minutes while David’s trying to fix his hair on where to go.

“Why can’t we just go to Wilton?” Stevie asks. She’s sitting cross-legged on David’s bed, and when he doesn’t respond immediately, she chucks a throw-pillow at him.

He swears at her, turning back to the mirror. “Because Wilton does Ladies Night on Thursdays and I’m not in the mood to deal with that.” David nods at himself in the mirror, satisfied. He grabs a sweater, one with matte-black camo decaling and white slashing accents, pulling it over his head. 

Turning back to Stevie he says, “What about The Tippler?” He picks his silver rings out of the dish on his dresser and stacks them onto his right hand.

Stevie fixes him a look. “In Chelsea Market?” David nods, removing a ring from his index finger and sliding it onto his middle. “I mean, I’m all for good food, but do you want to deal with that crowd?”

David winces, his fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Right, fine. But we’re going there next week. I need Doughnuttery.” 

He does one final look in the mirror before saying, “Why don’t we just head into the East Village and we’ll figure it out?” 

“Sounds good.” Stevie stands, fixing her leather jacket. David eyes her, to which she snaps a, “What?” at him.

He circles his right hand at her. “I just appreciate this getup.”

“Getup?”

“The leather, the jeans, the fact that you’re actually not wearing flannel to go out.” He glances down at her shoes. “The Converse, though…”

“I’m sorry, I’m not walking around in heels all night when I’ve done it all day.”

“Fair point,” David shrugs as they walk through the apartment. “But it’s hot, you look good.” 

Bag slung over her shoulder and keys in her hand, Stevie laughs. “What would a friendship be without a little flirting?”

They take a cab down to the East Village, David in no way wanting to deal with the tail-end of rush hour, and end up walking around for the better part of thirty minutes before Stevie breaks.

“Okay, there was a bodega two blocks back that I’m going to buy a six pack from and drink alone if you don’t make up your mind right now.”

David stops in his tracks, gazing diagonally across the street. He locks on a bar with a short blue awning and amber lights. A wooden sign reads  _ Bar 509 _ in white-painted letters. David watches a couple slip in through the front door, and another group exit.

The building practically glows in its own amber hue, and something about it feels warm and inviting. David’s been down here hundreds of times before, but he’s never noticed this bar. 

He points, looking over his shoulder at Stevie whose arms are crossed. “There,” he says, before rushing ahead of her.

The interior is very rustic, and not at all distasteful like David had feared. It’s not over-crowded, there’s good music actually playing, and nothing smells stale or feels sticky, either. Stevie spots two empty bar stools on one end and rushes for them.

“Cheers to a fucking monster-stack of submissions done.” Stevie lifts her coup glass, David meeting to clink his own against hers. 

“Cheers,” he repeats. 

“So, have you heard from Alexis at all?” Stevie ponders as she sips her drink.

David sets his glass down in a ring of condensation. “She texted me two days ago to tell me she was in the south of France, so.” He gives a half-hearted shrug. “At least I won’t have to worry too much.”

Stevie gives him a look of mild sympathy but doesn’t press further. She’s met Alexis multiple times and upon talking to her for five minutes, Stevie was able to see how fluttery his sister could be. 

She signals to the bartender for another round despite their current barely being finished. 

When he’s on his third drink and giggling like a madman as Stevie recounts an embarrassing high school story, a man squeezes in next to him, elbows digging into the bar top as he signals for a bartender. 

“Another beer please,” he motions with his empty bottle, the bartender nodding. “And a vodka cranberry.” 

David is intrigued by this guy. Short hair that definitely looks like it curls if it’s long enough, a navy-blue button-up that hugs his frame perfectly, the sleeves rolled up to expose toned forearms and, when he turns toward David, the kindest honey-brown eyes he’s ever seen. 

Something rushes through him, something warm that tugs at his stomach. When David catches the stranger’s gaze, he clears his throat. 

The man smiles, nodding politely in greeting. 

David’s mouth is moving faster than his brain. “That’s a good one,” he nods toward the empty bottle, a bright green label stuck on it. “They make that in Brooklyn.” 

The man smiles down at his bottle, turning it to face David. He bites his lip when the man taps the label. “I kind of got that from Brooklyn Brewery on the label.” 

David hums, his face flush with color, and Stevie elbows him. 

“He’s not bright,” she states simply, and David rolls his eyes. “But that is actually a very good beer...that I did not know they served.” She looks at her drink with mild disdain, as if she suddenly regrets her choice. 

“I agree with that.” The guy smiles warmly at them both and  _ fuck  _ David swears there are flecks of gold mixed with the brown in his eyes. 

Just then, a girl with long red hair comes up beside him, looping an arm through his.

“Making friends, Patrick?”

_ Patrick… _ That’s a nice name. David’s going to remember it. He feels like he has to. Patrick suits his name. Or the name suits Patrick.

_ Oh, no. It’s the alcohol.  _

“Oh, we’re just talking about beer,” he replies smoothly.

The guy --  _ Patrick --  _ leans down to kiss the girl’s head, and something strikes David in the stomach.

So... _ not  _ that then. No chance. Not that there would be; he’s been talking to the guy for less than two minutes now.

“I’m Patrick,” he motions to himself and then to the girl beside him, “and this is my girlfriend, Rachel.” 

She’s cute, a petite thing with eyes just as kind as Patrick’s. They’re darker though, David notes, no hidden flecks of gold in them. They look good together, these strangers. 

Rachel waves to them both. 

“Well I’m Stevie, and this is David. I am...I think he’s introduced me as his guard dog once or twice.” She sticks a hand out for each to shake, and David does the same.

When his hand meets Patrick’s, however, it’s like something shocks him. Not like a static shock that you get occasionally, but like a volt of electricity that surges through his right hand and up his spine. David could be mistaking things, it could be the lighting or it’s got to be the alcohol, but Patrick looks as if he has a reaction to it as well. 

_ Weird,  _ David thinks. 

The bartender sets the couple’s drinks down just as David’s hand leaves Patrick’s. Rachel goes to grab hers, but in the flurry of motion, it knocks right into David’s arm and spills over her white shirt. 

Stevie jumps immediately for a cloth napkin folded on the bar, calling out for a glass of club soda. 

David apologises profusely, but Rachel just waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she says, dabbing at her sleeve. “I didn’t even like this shirt.” 

The bartender scoops up the spilled glass, nodding at Patrick as a means to say he’ll remake it.

David bites back the embarrassment, and another apology, as Stevie steps around with the glass of seltzer. 

“I think there’s better lighting in the bathrooms,” she mutters to Rachel, arcing her head around to look for a restroom sign. “I think I have a stain remover in my bag, too. I’ve gotten enough red wine out of my shirts and David’s expensive shit to know to carry it at this point.”

The girls usher each other through the bar until David can’t see them anymore and he’s left alone to his own devices. And Patrick, so it seems.

David gestures vaguely in the direction Stevie disappeared in. “I--I’m sorry about that.” 

Patrick waves him off, taking a seat. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not the end of the world.” 

_ Says you,  _ David thinks briefly. Sure, Stevie’s become efficient in getting a stain out of his expensive white pieces while he peers over her shoulder watching meticulously, but he’s not sure he’s ever reacted as rationally and coolly as Rachel just did. 

“So are you two…” Patrick waves a finger toward the direction Stevie went, and David spikes that down.

“No, no. We’re not together.” He lets out a short laugh. “I mean, we used to hook up when we first met, but no. Stevie is my friend and roommate, and she helps run my gallery.”

Patrick’s eyebrows raise, clearly interested. “Gallery, huh?”

“Yeah, we host local artists as well as ones from all over the globe.” David circles his hands, palms-out, at Patrick. “We try to change things up with each season, which includes a  _ lot  _ of paperwork and going through artist submissions...It’s not The Met, but we showcase a mix of modern and contemporary art. A year and a half ago we had a whole exhibit by a photographer—-“ David cuts himself off, clearing his throat. He doesn’t need to go there. “Not important. Anyway, we’re celebrating because we got through a mountain of applicants in record time.”

“Well,” Patrick lifts his beer in a toast, “that is indeed worth celebrating.” 

The way Patrick smiles at him makes David’s stomach swoop. Normally, people don’t affect him like this. David usually goes on the prowl for a one-nighter, a good time and a stiff drink, if he’s lucky, and winds up leaving or being left the next morning. Just because that’s the routine doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

But Patrick -- this guy who’s clearly already here with someone else -- is doing something to him that David just can’t quite put a finger on. He bites back a grin.

“So, what about you?”

Patrick takes a long drink. “What about me?”

“What do you do?”

“Oh, well I’m a business consultant back in Canada, about two hours outside of Toronto. and Rachel is a social worker. We’re in New York visiting friends.” 

He waves a hand, then, encouraging Patrick to return to his group. “I don’t want to keep you--”

“You’re not, David, I promise. I’d rather wait for Rachel here.” He pauses. “Plus, you’re pretty easy to talk to. It’s refreshing.”

David raises his brows. “I’ve never been told having a conversation with me is ‘refreshing’ before.” He circles the rim of his glass with a finger, eyes averted from Patrick’s gaze for a moment. 

“What about you, are you from New York?”

He shakes his head. “Canada as well, actually. So is Stevie. Small world. Small...Canadian-filled world.” 

Patrick beams at him. “Are you a Jays fan?”

“I...Is that baseball?” Patrick snorts when he says that, and David ignores him. “Forget it.” 

A comfortable silence stretches out between them for but a moment until David needs to fill it again.

Patrick peels at the fraying edge of the beer label. “Forgive me for sounding very cliché when I ask but, do you come here often?” 

David laughs, hard and loud, his eyes squeezed shut. 

“No,” he says through a breath, “I’ve never actually been here before. Our scene is usually more upscale, like The Aviary or NoMad or something. This,” David gestures around vaguely, drink in-hand, “isn’t usually a spot we hit up.”

Patrick releases a low whistle. “Sounds high-class,” he says, and David hums.

David begins in guise of an explanation, not that Patrick needed one. Or wanted one. “Stevie was getting impatient when we couldn’t decide on a place, so we ended up here.” David looks around, slightly embarrassed by his word-vomiting, but adds, “I’ve been to the East Village countless times, but I’ve never noticed this place. That’s weird, right?”

Patrick gives him a shrug and an honest look. “New York’s pretty big. I mean, we’re technically outside of the city, but the reasoning still adds up.”

David nods slowly. “I kind of felt, I don’t know, drawn here tonight? Something about it seemed...inviting.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything right away. He only hums as he swirls his fingers delicately across the black quartz of the bar. 

Absently, he says, “I get that,” his fingers still trailing around. However, Patrick seemingly snaps himself out of his stupor and turns his attention back to David, chin in hand. “So is there anywhere in this city we should check out before we leave? We fly out tomorrow night.” 

David screws up his face, thinking. He begins listing off places — stores, restaurants, markets — “There’s a market in Grand Central, but skip that if you’re not going to be near it. There are better ones.” — and all the while, Patrick is watching him intently. 

As much as David wants to shrink away, zip his lips and keep himself from another embarrassing moment (he allows himself one a day, thank you), he can’t get himself to. And then Patrick is talking. He’s telling David a story about high school, about how he used to sing a lot more than he does now but still plays guitar. 

And sure, he doesn’t like people singing out of turn, but David imagines Patrick’s singing as something smooth, something sweet and...beautiful. 

“Beautiful” is bouncing around his head with the sound of this stranger’s laughter. A very attractive stranger, and not David’s normal type.

“Why don’t you sing as much?” 

Patrick dips his head down, cheeks pink in color. “No time, really,” he offers, “I work a lot.”

David’s about to prod further when Stevie returns.

“Okay, I think we can say that’s crisis averted.” 

Rachel’s blouse is a little damp, and the sleeves are rolled up. She immediately sinks into Patrick’s open arm, slotting perfectly into his side. 

“I hope your opinion of me hasn’t been mired,” David says half-heartedly to Rachel.

“I made sure it was,” Stevie interjects. She settles back into her spot, smirking at David. 

Rachel, with a polite shake of her head says, “Not at all,” as she cradles her remade drink in one hand.

Patrick nudges Rachel to her full height. “Better close out and head back to everyone before they send a search party.” He signals for the check, and David swipes the book from him before Patrick can reach for it.

“Let me pay,” he insists, giving a wide berth to slide his card over to the bartender. “It’s the least I can do for ruining your shirt.”

“Again, David, you didn’t ruin my shirt.” Rachel smiles warmly, and Patrick’s mouth is agape in an open smile.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” he says with an airy voice. 

David raises a shoulder. “Then let’s say that I was just feeling generous.” 

“Ooh, does that mean you’re paying for  _ our _ drinks tonight?” Stevie muses, her elbows digging into the bar. David shushes her.

“Well, what if we stopped by the gallery tomorrow before heading to the airport?” Patrick suggests. “As thanks for the drinks, I mean. And we’d be supporting you.” 

Rachel turns to David, her eyes wide and curious. “A gallery? That actually sounds really nice! Could we stop by, would that be okay?”

“It would be more than okay,” David says, “but unfortunately we keep weird hours. We open at five on Fridays.”

He has to push down the guilty feeling when Patrick’s expression shifts to minor disappointment. 

“Oh, that sucks,” Rachel frowns a little. “We’ll have to stop by the next time we’re in town. Do you have a card?”

“Here.” Stevie fishes one out of her bag, a rectangle of high-quality black cardstock with a rose printed on the front, curling letters spelling out  _ Rose Galerie,  _ its hours and contact information printed in white. “Give that number a call the next time you’re in; we’ll set some passes aside for you.”

Rachel studies it before passing it over to Patrick who slips it into his wallet. “We’ll definitely be taking you up on that,” he promises. “Thank you again for the drinks, David. It was nice meeting you both.”

They wave them off, David wishing them a safe flight, and then it’s just him and Stevie once again.

She nudges him. “Hey.” She nods in the direction Rachel and Patrick walked in. “What was all that?”

David blinks. “What was what?”

“You’re unnaturally smiley,” she smirks, and David subconsciously brings a hand up to his face. He hadn’t realized how much he was actually smiling.

“It’s not happening,” he huffs, attempting to even out his expression. “He’s cute. He’s in a relationship.” 

Stevie hums as he worries the silver ring on his pinky, the skin beneath itching mildly. 

They close out their tab after one last drink -- “Why can’t you pay this time, Stevie?” “I bought  _ lunch!”  _ \-- Stevie mentioning something about hitting up that bodega they passed on the way here as she pulls up a rideshare app. 

David gives a cursory glance around the bar. Over the tops of heads, in a sea of nearly-faceless people, he sees Patrick. He’s laughing at something, his eyes bright crinkling and, again, David thinks of the word “beautiful” to describe it all. 

Patrick, as if sensing him looking, looks up at smiles at him widely, eyes warm. They wave at each other, a small polite wave that friendly strangers do, then Stevie’s tugging at his sleeve again.

It’s a smile David won’t be forgetting anytime soon and a laugh he’ll hear in his dreams.

**

David Rose wakes up with a painful red cut around his pinky the next morning. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My dad deals with the business side of things,” he explains and Stevie just nods along. “You handle management, and I handle the most important job: making the motel look nice.”
> 
> “That’s debatable. You did want to change our sheets to Egyptian cotton, but that was just a tad off budget.”
> 
> David drums his fingers impatiently on the table. “It would be an _investment_ that the guests would love.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, thank you for reading! You can find me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) on tumblr

“I don’t understand, why can’t we just invest in keycards?”

“Because they’re not exactly at the top of my list.” Stevie sets down her coffee mug, adding, “Also, I really don’t want to figure out the logistics.”

“But the keys are outdated,” David attempts to argue, rolling his hand as an emphasizing gesture. “Keycards are more high-tech, more modern.” 

“Hard-copy keys work just fine, so there’s really no point.”

He makes a noise of agreement at that. David drags the tip of his pen down his list until he gets to  _ Keycards  _ and crosses it off in his notebook.

“Okay, next item: the honeymoon suite.”

Stevie blinks. “What about it?”

“Uh, the fact that it’s gaudy, off-putting, and has a mirror on the  _ ceiling.  _ That should be enough to push for redoing that room.”

“Some guests like that room,” Stevie replies, her hands folded on the table. “For instance, just last week Roland requested it for him and Jocelyn. Apparently, they—“

“Okay!” David shakes his hands out, whining. “Okay! I don’t need to hear that!” Stevie is grinning evilly across from him. “That’s…revolting. I’m not going near that room anymore.”

“We could get a blacklight,” Stevie continues, deadpan now as she sips her coffee. “I’m sure we’d see a lot of—“

“I would say I’m moving out, because now you’re just egging me on, but there is  _ literally  _ nowhere else in this town to live.” David puts a finger up when she opens her mouth. “If you say the honeymoon suite is available, I’ll scream.”

Stevie laughs, picking up her pen to scribble something on the page in front of her. “Shouldn’t your dad be here if we’re going over this stuff? He is part of the team.”

“My dad deals with the business side of things,” he explains and Stevie just nods along. “You handle management, and I handle the most important job: making the motel look nice.”

“That’s debatable. You did want to change our sheets to Egyptian cotton, but that was just a  _ tad  _ off budget.”

David drums his fingers impatiently on the table. “It would be an  _ investment  _ that the guests would love.” 

“And your dad would shoot that suggestion down immediately.” She taps the table vacantly. “He’s been a really big help, you know. I do wish the circumstances were better for you guys, but having Mr. Rose around has been really good.”

He hums, “It helps to have someone who understands business. I mean, he did build one from the ground up.” 

“True. I also never thought I would be back in hospitality. I always figured I’d be doing a bunch of odd jobs until I wound up back in Schitt’s Creek or dying alone.” She says it as a joke, but Stevie pauses, her eyes going wide. “That was…morbid.”

David nods, “A bit, yeah.”

It had been a whirlwind of a year and a half for them. Six weeks after they finalized the artist submissions, David walked through the door of their apartment only to find Stevie shaking at the breakfast bar. Papers were strewn out in front of her, a call on speakerphone and her head was in her hands.

Maureen, Stevie’s great-aunt, had died and left the motel to her. The rest of the night was spent nursing a lot of drinks (and tears) on their balcony as they listened to the city’s nightlife until Stevie voiced the obligation to return home.

And David, in an entirely out of character split-second decision, said he’d go with her.

Promising to help with whatever Stevie needed until she was on her feet, which wound up being a whole lot of much-needed upgrading and redesign, David sold the gallery. 

It shocked some of their usual crowd, albeit mildly, and mostly because the booze-filled nights with cold acquaintances-friends-trysts were being uprooted.

They were settled into a much smaller apartment the following month in a rural town in Ontario, driving themselves headfirst into new territory, learning as they went.

Sure, the town is dusty and filled with a few oddball people — Roland, specifically — and lacks up-to-date stores -- the café probably has equipment from the early aughts -- but David settled into it all. A lot easier than he anticipated.

The money David made from the sale — a pretty hefty sum — went straight into motel renovations.

He counts himself very lucky that he sold when he did, because the morning his father called, six months after their initial move to Schitt’s Creek, his mother wailing in the background, to tell him that their money was gone, David’s stomach nearly dropped out of his body. Everything they had worked towards had disappeared into thin air due to his father’s sketchy business manager and some tax evasion.

What money David  _ did  _ have left in his bank account was enough for now.

Suddenly, for the first time in longer than David could actually remember, the Roses were all together in one place instead of scattered throughout the globe. Schitt’s Creek welcomed them with open arms and a place to stay — at the motel. 

If his mother had started screaming again, then David wasn’t around to hear it.

Once his family was settled and David had batted away Alexis’s constant insistence that she’d be an excellent roommate for him and Stevie, things felt abjectly normal again. His mother somehow managed to join the town council, Alexis was working at Ted Mullens’ veterinary clinic in town while finishing her degree, and his father had joined the motel team.

“You know…your dad mentioned the possibility of expanding the other day.” Stevie had since pushed aside her notepad, her eyes fixed on David.

“Oh?”

“He thinks that if we played our cards right, it’s a high possibility,” she explains, bringing her hands to wrap tight around her mug. “He said he was looking into some vacant motels in the area when he brought it up.” She gives a half-shrug.

David raises his brows. “Wow…When would that be happening?”

“Probably not for awhile. We still need to focus on what we do have before we can actively work toward investing in anything else. Plus, we need to gain some revenue for it to actually be a viable option.”

David gives her a genuine smile. “It’s all working out,” he says, hands clasping together. “So, I have something else to propose…”

Twyla stops by with their breakfast then, setting each plate down respectively with a kind smile.

“Do you guys need anything else? David, more coffee?”

He nods, “Please,” and she’s off.

He turns his attention back to Stevie. “I was thinking that we could maybe try to find something more natural when it comes to complimentary toiletries.”

Stevie eyes him curiously. “What’s wrong with the stuff we have now?”

“It smells like a geriatric ward and artificial cherries,” David winces, and she rolls her eyes.

“It’s what Maureen used even before I worked there in high school,” she explains as she cuts into her omelette.

“It would be good for us if we worked with someone local instead of handing out products that were mass-made in a factory in, like, Newark or something.” He sighs heavily before continuing. “Let me look into it and give you any information I find. Think about it; it’ll be mutually beneficial for both parties involved.” 

David lifts a shoulder, his head tilted to the side as he flashes Stevie a toothy, lopsided smile. Her posture relaxes slightly, she’s convinced.

“Fine, but we better get samples.”

_ “Obviously  _ we’ll be getting samples,” David rolls his eyes half-heartedly.

They head to the motel afterward, Stevie to handle check-ins and man the desk, David to hopefully snatch Alexis’s laptop and get some of his own work done.

His family’s block of rooms is shockingly empty when he walks in, the laptop forgotten on his sister’s bed. The door that connects the rooms, hollow and sometimes needing to be kicked to close properly, is open wide. There’s an empty bed ready for him when the nagging obligation of being a good son and spending time with his family arises.

David props the laptop open, pulling up one of the better distribution sites he’s been using for furniture around the motel. They can’t afford to splurge, but they can’t exactly afford to look cheap, either.

David knows about presentation; he spent years painstakingly fitting pieces together to make himself and everything surrounding him look pleasing to the eye. It was once those thick first, second, and sometimes third layers were pulled back that anyone got to see the real thing.

It’s why he sticks to blacks and whites, clothing that hangs too loose or, depending on the situation, hugs too tight.

David Rose knows how to stand out and he knows how to mute himself if need be.

“Here goes nothing…”

**

He pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes dry and strained from staring at the computer screen for so long.

His father had tasked him with finding reasonably priced appliances to replace the outdated ones in the rooms: mini-fridges, microwaves, and hotplates that were still up in the air for safety reasons.

He winces, his right pinky itching and irritating under his ring. David pulls it off, the silver band clattering against the lacquered wood tabletop as he inspects his finger.

David had noticed the jagged scar looping around his right pinky the morning after he and Stevie went out for their celebratory drinks at that bar in the East Village. He knew he wasn’t  _ that  _ drunk, but when he woke up with an angry red cut circling the base of his finger, he couldn’t place the time or cause of injury.

There was no glass, no splintering wood and  _ thank god  _ no visible bone, but the gash looked deep. No blood, either, it just stung and felt raw.

Stevie suggested cleaning it regularly, which he did, but it never went away. It just wound up fading into a pinkish-white color, the scar tissue slightly raised. It was kind of as if someone had pulled tight, tight, tight on a very thin rope to cause a burn.

Again with presentation; David always keeps a ring over it.

Initially, he’d tried dabbing concealer on it, but there was no point; every time he washed his hands or did anything, really, the coverup would just come off. A ring was solid, so a ring was David’s best option. 

“This thing never healed…”

“What never healed?”

David snaps his head to the right where Alexis looms over his shoulder. He swears, jumping while she taps him twice on the nose. David glares as she skirts around the table and falls into the seat across from him.

“Are you trying to kill me?” He exclaims, a hand coming up to the pulse point on his neck.

“What never healed?” She asks again, eyes trained on her cuticles.

“This…scar on my finger.” He extends a hand over toward her. “I don’t know how I got it.”

Alexis hums, gingerly brushing over the discolored sink. “It looks fine to me. Kind of like a ring, actually.” 

David pulls his hand back, turning his attention back to his search. 

“Can I have my laptop back?”

“I’m not finished yet,” David grumbles, marking down the pricing and model of a mini-fridge. “‘M’working.” 

Alexis sighs audibly, spinning his lone ring and picking up a magazine from Spring of ’94. She flips through it for a while, which allows David to finish price-gauging until she taps a finger at him.

“It kind of looks like a red string.” 

David narrows his eyes at her. “A what?”

Alexis flicks her wrist. “A red string. You know, like that fate thing?”

“Alexis, I have no idea what you’re fucking talking about.”

“God, David,” she groans, “just let me finish! It’s one of those myths or whatever! Like, two people are connected by one string.” 

Alexis stares at him as if this should be common knowledge. It’s not. “Fine, whatever!”

“Oh my god, this is from a cut I got over a year ago, not part of some stupid wives tale you heard about in the Caribbean!” 

“I heard about it in Taiwan, actually, and it originates from Chinese folklore, David.” She picks up her magazine again. “And I’m  _ just  _ making an observation. There’s no need for you to get snippy.”

“Snippy,” he repeats in annoyance and scratches his pinky again.

Alexis turns the page. “Can you go ask Stevie for towels?”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“I’m busy,” she responds without looking up.

David gestures to the laptop. “And I’m not?”

“You could use a break,” is her reply.

“I don’t even live here!” But David stands up anyway, slipping his ring back on and making sure his work is saved. “I’m going to come back here and you’re going to be using the laptop, I guarantee it.”

Alexis blows him a kiss as he turns on his heel to leave, the door slamming shut behind him as he makes his way down the path to the office.

Stevie’s helping a guest when he walks in, his brows pinched together and irritation is rising in his stomach.

“…and you will be in room five.” David watches as she hands the man a key and a clipboard. “Just fill this out first.” She turns to him. “Why do you look like someone spit in your coffee?”

David grimaces. “Alexis asked me to get towels because she’s too busy reading a magazine.”

Stevie turns to the computer and doesn’t bat an eye as she says, “Okay, well you know where they are.”

“I’m not going up there,” he gapes, “there was a spider last time!”

Stevie blanches at him. “Maybe  _ don’t  _ say that in front of our guests?” 

David turns to apologize to the man filling out his form beside him but the words get caught in his throat. 

The man beside him wears a light blue button-up, a kind smile, and has a pair of honey-brown eyes that David knows he’s seen before.

He blinks a few times, trying his best to steady himself but the memory rushes back to him like water. 

New York, the bar, the girl whose drink he spilled. A kind stranger with a beautiful smile and the sweetest laugh David has ever heard.

He could be reading it wrong, but the guy looks just as bewildered as David feels.

“I-I’m sorry, uh…”

“Patrick,” the man greets, a hand extended.

“David.”

Their hands meet and something physically shifts. 

David suddenly feels himself being thrust back to that night in the bar, sitting with Patrick. It’s like the dream he’s had hundreds of times, but so much clearer.

He can taste his drink, smell the mix of liquor and cologne in the air, feel the heat in his cheeks and David’s stomach is swooping as Patrick laughs. The laugh that he hears in his dreams, ringing as clear as a bell.

David isn’t in Schitt’s Creek. He’s in New York, he’s in the East Village at a bar he had never even noticed before, and he’s sitting with Patrick, a man he just met.

He blinks, maybe, and David is sent back to reality. 

“Okay, I’m not sure what that was,” Stevie pipes up and they both turn to look at her, “but I’m going to get those towels so I don’t have to witness anymore sexual tension or whatever.” She’s bounding up the stairs before either of them can comment.

Patrick’s staring at him wide-eyed and curious, and David can’t find anything to say.

Luckily, Patrick does. “Did…we—“ He clears his throat. “Did we meet in New York once?”

David rubs and pinches at his pinky through his ring, the skin still tingling from before. “I think we did,” he replies in a whisper. He feels queasy.

“That was weird, right?” Patrick sets his pen down on the desk. “Like we…You were here and then you were—“

“In New York,” David finishes, “yeah. Weird.”

Patrick wipes his hands on his jeans and tucks them into his pockets. There’s a flush of color rising on his cheeks that David can’t help but stare at.

“What are you doing in Schitt’s Creek?” David asks, attempting to make casual conversation.

“I applied for a job. Business consulting.” Patrick rocks back and forth on his heels. “You?”

“Oh, I live here.” He pauses. “Not  _ here,  _ like in the motel. I live in an apartment with, uh, with Stevie.” David points vaguely toward the staircase where she disappeared. 

Patrick squints, mouth in a little ‘o’ shape. “You had a gallery…?”

His voice trails off as Stevie returns, a stack of towels wobbling in her arms.

“I grabbed four because I’m sure Mrs. Rose is going to want one.” She shoves them into David’s chest and turns her attention back to Patrick. “All done?” She asks, taking his form.

“Ah, yeah.” He holds up the key, waving it stiffly in the air. “Room five. It was nice meeting you both,” Patrick smiles and exits, his gaze lingering a little longer on David.

He waits until the door is closed to turn slowly back to Stevie, setting the towels down on the desk.

She eyes him. “What the hell was that?”

“Do you remember him?” When she shakes her head, David elaborates. “After we finished submissions last year, we went to that bar in the East Village. I spilled his girlfriend’s drink on her by accident, you helped her get the stain out.” Still nothing. “His name is Patrick.”

Stevie shrugs, filing Patrick’s information away. “Which one?”

“Bar 509,” he says, wringing his hands.

She stops, squinting as if she’s doing some kind of mental math. “Vaguely…? Why, did you two hook up or something?”

“We didn’t.” David presses his fingertips against the desk, peering over his shoulder at the door as if doing so will make Patrick circle back.

David has never told Stevie about the dreams he’s had, the ones where he wakes up a little disoriented, chasing the laughter of a stranger he’s only met once before and how oddly comforting it was. 

It wasn’t every night, but it was often enough that David had stopped questioning it. Until today.

“He said he applied for a job with Ray,” Stevie says, and David shakes his head to focus on her. She clicks through something on the computer. “Who knows, maybe he’ll be sticking around.”

She gives him a knowing look which, frankly, is annoying, her eyebrows raised ever so slightly. David waves her off.

“It’s not that,” he supplies weakly.

Stevie says, “You say that now,” and doesn’t press further.

David scratches absently at the outside of his right hand, a phantom itch. He tells Stevie he’ll see her at home, deposits the towels on Alexis’ bed, and makes his way to their apartment.

**

David doesn’t see Patrick again for several days, not until the following week when he’s walking home from the cafè. 

At first, David assumed Patrick had left town, that the job with Ray didn’t work out. He tries not to let it disappoint him too much. Patrick’s a stranger at the end of the day. An intriguing and very handsome stranger.

But on the edge of town, just past the high school, is a little park. It’s not much; a swing set, a sprawling lawn with patches of dead grass, and a baseball field. Nothing too pretty or necessarily breathtaking, but it’s a spot where David goes to decompress since no one is ever there on a weekday afternoon.

As he walks through the gate, tucking his phone in his pocket as he comes up to the old metal swings that he usually sits on, that’s where he sees Patrick again. David worries his pinky ring and tries to pat down the feeling of relief and the tiny smile he has upon seeing him again.

“Not bored of this place yet?” 

Patrick looks up from wherever he was staring off into, his face relaxing. He smiles warmly at David in greeting.

“No,” he says, twisting around on his swing. “I just came out here to clear my head.”

“I meant the town,” he clarifies, gripping hard at his cup.

Patrick relaxes his shoulders. “Oh. Then no.”

David takes a tentative step forward, eyeing the empty swing beside Patrick. “This is a good spot to think. I come here pretty often, actually.”

Patrick gestures for him to sit and he does, kicking his legs up a little to sway forward.

“So you got the job?”

Patrick nods. “Yeah, and a room for now. Apparently Ray does real estate? He’s helping me find an apartment nearby.”

“He’s good,” David bobs his head to the side. “He’s also the only real estate agent around, so he’s your only option.”

Patrick huffs a little laugh. “Yeah well, he’s been good to me.” 

A long pause hangs in the air, and David wracks his brain for something interesting to say so the moment doesn’t drag on further.

“Are you liking it here?”

_ Great. Small talk. Wonderful. Ask about the weather next, genius.  _

“It’s charming,” Patrick replies honestly. It might be cloudy, but David can still pick out the bits of red in his hair. “Funny name, but the people are nice. A little intense at times.” 

David winces. “You’ve met Roland, then.”

“I met Roland,” Patrick confirms with a half-smile. “And Ray, obviously. And Ronnie, but I’m not too sure she likes me.”

“Lots of alliteration here.” 

Patrick hums, and another silence washes over them. David drags the toe of his shoe in a line through the dirt. 

“Hey, I want to ask you something, but it might be a little weird…” David’s posture goes rigid as he says it, blunt nails tapping against his half-empty cup as he hesitates. “Do you remember that night at all? At the bar?”

He isn’t really sure what he’s searching for -- maybe confirmation that he’s dwelling too much on the past once again -- but he holds out regardless.

Patrick purses his lips thoughtfully. “I remember it pretty well,” he concludes. “You  _ did  _ spill my girlfriend’s drink, after all.” 

David tosses his head back, embarrassed, his eyes squeezed shut. He whines a little. “I apologized then, and I’ll apologize again now.” 

“You were also great company when Rachel was in the bathroom.” 

He huffs out a mocking laugh. “I don’t hear that too often.”

Patrick’s face flashes to some kind of sympathetic expression, only briefly. “Well I can assure you I’m being honest.”

A weight lifts from somewhere deep in his stomach at that. “So where is Rachel?”

Patrick ducks his head down, a flash of a nervous downturned smile coming across his lips. “We, uh, we broke up,” he says when he raises his head again. He looks straight out at the field in front of him. “Recently,” he adds.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I—“

“Please don’t be, David. We got engaged five months after we visited New York, but it didn’t work out.”

“I know I’m a stranger,” David says softly, “but was there any reason…?”

“Well I’m hoping you’ll be less of a stranger,” Patrick says somewhat delicately, and David has to purse his lips tightly to suppress a small grin.

Patrick opens his mouth again to answer but appears to abort whatever he was going to say. He shifts in his seat, twisting the swing before finally responding. “Different paths, different things,” he states simply. “We were together for a really long time, on and off, but it just never worked out in the end. We were always breaking up. I grew up in a small town — Hapland Grove, it’s about three or four hours from here. Everyone knows each other there, I needed a fresh start.”

David nods along slowly, watching as Patrick pinches the webbing of his fingers. He twists his rings, fiddling a little longer with the one that sits on his pinky.

“What about you? What brought you to Schitt’s Creek?”

“That’s a lot to unpack,” David laughs. “I followed Stevie. Her aunt owned the motel and left it to her when she died last year.”

“And…what happened to the gallery?” 

“I sold it,” he replies. “It’s a good thing I did, too, I uh…” David shakes his head. “Stevie’s been a big help the past few years, this was the least I could do.”

Patrick studies him and it takes everything in his power for David not to rear back.

“What?”

“No, nothing,” he puts his hands up defensively. “You just seemed like a big city kind of guy. At least that’s what I got from the ten minutes I spent talking to you.” 

“I definitely am.” David waves a hand around. “I mean, I  _ love  _ New York.” 

It’s the truth. David could go on for hours about the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, the never-ending nightlife, the absolute best restaurants on the West Side — and the ones to completely avoid — and truly the best hole-in-the-wall shops. He could wax poetic about the ways fall in New York was far superior to summer, even if summer did have great outdoor events and rooftop bars. And he could write essays on the charm of walking through the echoing halls of the Met on his days off, alone, admiring true masterpieces.

“I’ll be back there one day,” he declares both to himself and to Patrick, who’s still watching him intently. “Eventually.”

Patrick goes to say something else when his phone dings in his pocket. He pulls it out, sighing at the screen.

“That’s my cue,” he sighs. “I have an appointment in twenty that I have to finalize some paperwork for.” He stands, and David stands along with him, hovering by the swings momentarily.

“Hopefully I’ll see you around?”

David offers him a genuine smile, a lopsided one. “You definitely will,” he promises. “I’m kind of hard to miss.”

“You definitely are.” 

David blinks, a little taken aback, but there’s something in the way Patrick says it that isn’t demeaning or teasing. It’s  _ kind.  _

“Bye, David.”

“Bye,” he whispers and waves, watching as Patrick walks off with his hands in his pockets. 

David waits until Patrick’s out of sight to let his shoulders drop and his head fall back toward the sky, letting out a strained noise. 

_ Dammit. _


	3. Chapter 3

The following weeks pass in a blur. They change from one month into the next and before he knows it, David is wearing his sweaters in the dead of summer once again.

Stevie makes fun of him — she  _ always  _ makes fun of him — Alexis makes fun of him, hell, his own parents make fun of him. But David lives with it. He counters their arguments with a mix of fabricated reasoning and bullshit, claiming he has a certain aesthetic to uphold.

Which he does. He  _ does.  _

Alexis gives him one, “You’re not in New York, David,” while she’s wearing what looks like a literal bathing suit coverup, and David flips her off.

He knows, however, that Stevie actually understands it. Or, at the very least, she just doesn’t question it. Not anymore.

Whatever, he’s comfortable, even in spite of his discomfort in this stupid fucking heat and that’s what matters.

It’s why when David pulls on a black sweater with a circle of white stars printed on the chest and walks into the kitchen, Stevie just says, “It’s a scorcher out there,” in a flat tone without even looking up from her cereal bowl.

David pours himself a glass of orange juice and rolls his eyes.

“I’m meeting with Brenda today,” he announces, “She’s giving me some samples for us to try and we’re going over the contract.”

“Good.” Stevie swings around on the barstool to face him. “Does this mean you need the car?”

“Yes, it means that I need the car.” He sits down beside her with an empty bowl, helping himself to the cereal. 

“Okay, but you have to fill the tank.”

“Sure.” He holds his hand out for the keys.

“And maybe wash the windows.”

David rolls his eyes again, his patience growing thin. “Maybe.”

“Also, if you could vacuum the inside that would be wonderful—“

“Okay, should I just ask to borrow the Lincoln from my parents?” He squints at her, and when Stevie laughs, he says, exasperated, “Fine. I will fill the tank out of necessity, but I’m making no promises on the windows. Also, this is a work trip, so I better get reimbursed.”

“Bring it up with the boss.”

David gapes at her. “The motel is  _ literally  _ under your name. You’re the boss!”

“Damn right I am!” Stevie agrees confidently. “Just drive me to work and I’ll give you ten bucks.” She drops the keys into his open palm with a self-satisfied smile. 

It’s as good as it’ll get, so David doesn’t argue further. 

He ducks into the back office quickly when he drops Stevie off, needing to grab the paperwork that’s been drawn up, then he’s on his way.

Brenda’s place is in Elm Grove, a solid hour and fifteen minute drive away, so David settles in for the ride along a two-lane country highway. 

He passes Ray’s on the way out of town and gives the house a cursory glance, and his mind wanders off to Patrick.

He still dreams of his laugh on occasion, but it’s no longer encompassed by the amber lights of the bar in New York. His laugh isn’t surrounded by the commotion of glasses clinking and other voices. There are new settings now; the motel lobby, the café, and on one occasion, David’s bed.

He had to take care of himself right away when he woke up from that one.

He’s seen Patrick around, though. They’ve run into each other here and there, and one night Stevie invited him for drinks at the Wobbly Elm. It involved a lot of pool, darts, and Stevie ribbing David on his terrible hand-eye coordination.

It tracks; he did throw a dart directly into the wall  _ below  _ the board. No amount of bravado could save him from that. 

Stevie kept giving David wide-eyed looks and not-so-subtle gestures the whole night. The one instance where Patrick hyped David up before his turn during a game of pool by rubbing his shoulders caused Stevie to waggle her eyebrows so much that he was convinced they would shoot off her forehead. While David chalked it up to niceties and encouragement, Patrick’s touch was all he could focus on. 

Firm hands and the likely unintentional wisps of warm breath against the back of his neck. 

“You two are really oblivious,” she had said to him on the ride home. David just brushed it off.

There was also the wonderful morning at the café where Patrick met and learned that David’s entire family was living in Schitt’s Creek as well. Maybe Patrick was kind enough not to inquire, or maybe he’d already heard about it from Ray considering that man’s penchant for chatting. But Patrick had smiled and introduced himself to the out-of-place, well-dressed Rose family. 

David’s mother was enraptured by this “pulchritudinous young man,” which caused Patrick’s cheeks to go bright pink and make David want to sink under the table and stare at the old gum stuck to its underside. She encouraged Patrick to pull up a chair and sit with them, but he politely declined, having to head to work. 

Alexis’ comment about Patrick being “just the cutest thing!” later on earned her a pillow to the chest.

“Oh, you  _ like  _ him,” she sing-songed like a middle-schooler. David stormed out of the room before she could jab at him further.

David, amongst all else, was not subtle. He knew that quite well, thank you. 

Patrick’s a handsome guy, David can’t deny that. Sure, maybe he's a little boring with his button-down shirts and Levi’s — though said Levi’s are quite form-fitting and leave little to the imagination. Not that David is complaining. 

But Patrick was very much unlike anyone David had ever met before. For one, he was nice. Like,  _ really  _ nice. 

In fact, during their excursion to the Wobbly Elm, David had somewhat drunkenly stressed the importance of SPF in a daily moisturizer and received a text the following day from Patrick asking for recommendations. Whether or not Patrick went out and bought something, he didn’t actually know.

Patrick was genuine, too, and actually seemed interested in the things David had to say. He wasn’t flippant or bombastic like the people he left back in Manhattan. Apart from Stevie, who kept him in check. 

He misses  _ some  _ aspects of Manhattan; easy access to all the best museums, hosting events and collaborating with incredibly talented -- though sometimes vain -- people. There was always a strange loneliness about it, though. The city that never sleeps was always filled with people leaving, but at the end of the night Stevie was always there with him even before they shared an apartment.

He drives, trees whipping on past him as music flows through the speakers, running over the contract in his head multiple times as the road between him and Elm Grove grows shorter.

David’s pulling up to a farmhouse-style storefront before he knows it. It’s quaint, the front path lined with wildflowers, and there’s a woman out watering them with a mess of blonde curls falling around her shoulders.

Brenda greets David with a hug and ushers him inside for a grand tour. 

Her shop is narrow, brightly-lit with cream interiors, and there are repurposed wooden shelving units and a deep basin sink in one corner. Brenda has three small boxes set aside for David to take, each containing various scent options of shampoos, conditioners, soaps, and creams.

She practically laps up the contract as they sit with it over tea, a lovely blend of dried currants and spearmint that he writes down the name of. Brenda’s more than happy to be working with a neighboring business, and David can’t quite wipe the proud smile from his face or pinpoint the last time he had felt so fulfilled when speaking with someone on a professional level. Someone that was smart and wasn’t leading with their wallet.

Even with the gallery, he was a little dissatisfied from time to time. When the rush of adrenaline finally subsided from an opening, when everyone left and he was locking the door, what else was there? Reviews and write-ups could be really hit-or-miss, and they often threw David for a whirlwind of emotions. Stevie would have to talk him off a ledge most times, always equipped with Xanax. There were days that felt really good and days that felt just fine. 

He brushes off the thought, instead thanking Brenda as she sends him off with several additional full-sized products and the promise to speak with him in the next week.

David’s on the way out the door when he catches himself on the doorframe. A small informational A-board sits in front of a stack of silver tins that catch his attention.

_ A First-Aid Kit Fix for Scarring and Imperfections _

“What’s this?” David picks up the rounded tin and turns to Brenda, rolling it in his grasp. 

“That’s our Fading Balm. It contains black seed oil which helps rejuvenate scar tissue and helps with discoloration.” She tilts her head. “Are you interested in it?”

“Kind of…” David rotates it, pops off the lid and sniffs the dried honey-colored product. “For me, really, not the motel. I have some old scarring, um…I’ve been trying to find something for it. How much is a tin?”

Brenda waves him off. “Take it, please,” she insists, pushing it into his hand despite David’s protesting. “Use it twice a day, morning and night and you should start to see a difference within two weeks.”

“So it works?” He caps it, skeptical. 

How often has he seen these self-proclaimed miracle infomercial products when he’s unable to sleep at three in the morning? Granted, Brenda isn’t a big box store nor is she selling products with little yellow labels that read “As Seen on TV.” 

She rolls up the cap-sleeve of her shirt until all of her right shoulder is exposed. “Certainly helped with the incisions from a surgery I had nearly ten years ago,” she says, motioning a finger around a patch of freckled skin. “You can barely see it now.” 

And she’s right; save for just some barely-visible discoloration if he looks hard enough, Brenda’s shoulder looks nearly unscathed, no signs of prominent scar-tissue or anything. 

“It’s not a concealer or a sheer-tint product,” she adds, “You put it on like you would any other topical.”

That’s the selling point he needs, then.

David thanks her once again, sets the boxes safely in the trunk and leaves with a honk of the horn. 

**

He’s coasting, the windows rolled down and the air on low; not too hot, not too cold. The tin sits stuffed in his bag in the passenger’s seat. David twists at his pinky ring over the wheel, worrying his bottom lip.

Sure, it might be a quick fix. Hell, it might not even work. He’s the only one who ever really pays any mind to the faded loop anyway, but it bugs the hell out of him. It’s there day in and day out, taunting him, and all he wants to do is rid himself of the damn thing so he doesn’t have to hide it under a silver band forever.

Not that wearing rings has anything to do with it -- they are very much a part of David’s curated aesthetic that he began wearing long before this scar appeared.

Maybe one day he’ll come to terms with this particular imperfection, but for now David will continue to be a vibrant thirty-something and vain.

He’s humming along to the radio, not thirty minutes away from home, when he sees the car pulled off on the shoulder up ahead. The hood is up, the hazards are on, and someone is obviously there if the small toolbox on the ground is any indication. 

Normally, David wouldn’t think twice about driving right past, but literally no one and nothing else is around for miles.

And Stevie had been right this morning — it’s very hot out.

What could David even offer, besides calling for a tow? A ride? Sure, maybe, if this whole thing wasn’t a trap that would end with him laying tied-up in a ditch. The extent of his knowledge on cars starts and ends with the color of the one he’s driving — red — and the fact that his parents’ Lincoln is actually a goddamn boat of a vehicle. 

He stops a car’s length behind the other and steps out into the blaring mid-day sun. David hovers behind his open door just in case this really is a trap and he needs to make a break for it.

“Hey? Do you need any help?” 

There’s a clatter of metal and a thud on the hood, as whoever David just called out to hits their head. 

He winces. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s, uh, it’s fine!” Comes a pressed but familiar voice, and David freezes.

Patrick peers over the hood, a hand rubbing against the back of his head. He squints at David in the sunlight, smiling weakly upon recognition. “Fancy seeing you here,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Sorry,” David says again, softer this time. “You okay?”

“Eh, I don’t think I have a concussion, but my car won’t start.” Patrick turns to give it a dejected glance, hands set on his hips. “I’ve been out here for awhile.” 

“Did you call Bob? He can probably help.”

“I would, but I don’t actually have his number.” 

“Here,” David pulls out his phone and walks over to Patrick. “I’ll give it to you. It’s probably a good thing to have, anyway.” 

Patrick nods in thanks and he dials, walking back around to the hood of his car. 

“Bob? Hey, it’s Patrick Brewer…Yeah, yeah. Listen, my car broke down outside of Elmdale on my way home, would you be able to help me out? Or do you know anyone in the area?”

David watches Patrick pace the length of his car. His shirt clings well against his broad back and shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows (David could make a comment about how it’s too hot to be wearing a shirt like that, but then he’d just be a hypocrite). There’s a slight glisten of sweat along his forehead, and David notes the red undertones in his cropped hair and the way it would definitely curl if Patrick ever allowed it to grow out more than he has it now. 

He realizes he’s staring and has to preoccupy himself with his phone.

“He’s on his way.” Patrick pockets his phone. “You don’t have to stick around, you know. I’m sure you’re busy.”

“No.” David hops onto the hood of his car to make a point, “I’ll wait with you.” 

“David, you really don’t have to.” 

“Let’s just say that I would feel terrible if I left you here alone and you wound up dying of heatstroke or something equally lame.”

Patrick barks out a laugh. “Lame?”

“If you’re going to go out, you should go out with a bang,” David states, scrunching up his nose, “or sweetly.”

“You’re going to have to define what you mean by sweetly.” Patrick sits on the hood beside him and pinches the base of his fingers. “Do you mean while having sex or in your sleep…?”

“Okay, dying while having sex is possibly the  _ hottest  _ way to go,” David holds up a finger, “but yes.” 

“Maybe let’s stop talking about death while sitting in the middle of a two-lane highway,” Patrick suggests. “I feel like if we keep talking about it, we’ll start hallucinating vultures. This is...kind of morbid.”

“I would argue that dying in a boring way is more morbid, but okay.” David claps his hands together. “Change of subject: what were you doing in Elmdale?”

“Just running some errands for Ray, checking out the town.” Patrick leans back against the windshield, one hand tucked behind his head. He kicks out a leg, gesturing toward his car. “I’ve had it for years. It’s bound to break down permanently at some point.” 

“Was,” David corrects. “It  _ was  _ bound to break down permanently at some point.” He nods towards it even though Patrick’s eyes are closed and adds, “It looks like it just did.”

He lets out a little sigh. “Nah. She’s got some life left in her. Let’s just see what Bob has to say about it. I really don’t want to have to find a new car.” 

“I’m sure the next one you get won’t be a lemon,” David smirks.

Patrick cracks his eyes open to look at him. “Please don’t jinx it, David.” 

Bob arrives in what he calls “record time,” if an additional half an hour is even considered that. Patrick leaves David to follow as he inspects the engine. Eventually, Bob rubs his hands together and, in his too-jolly tone, announces that he’s going to have to take it back to the garage to get a closer look.

They’re soon watching Patrick’s car shrink off into the distance on the back of Bob’s tow. 

“This sucks,” David hears Patrick grumble under his breath. 

“C’mon, I won’t make you walk home.”

“Aw, how sweet.” Patrick climbs into the passenger’s seat, moving David’s bag to the back. The tin of fading balm falls out, and Patrick picks it up off the floor.

“What’s this?”

David starts the car. “It helps restore proper skin tone and correct discoloration from scars,” he explains, and Patrick examines the tin further. “I was meeting a potential vendor for the motel today and saw this on my way out.” 

“What kind of vendor?” Patrick asks as they pull onto the road.

“Someone who will be supplying a better set of toiletries than what we have now. The usual things, but with less synthetics and chemicals.”

Patrick hums, sliding the tin back into David’s bag. “That’s really good, working with local businesses,” he concludes, and David’s mind is set at-ease about it all. 

“Well I do know a thing or two about collaboration,” David says. If he was ballsy enough, he might throw in a terrible pickup line about collaborating with Patrick. He pushes that possibility out of his head the second it formulates.

David Rose is  _ not  _ a college frat boy and wouldn’t be caught dead with one.

Unless it was Patrick. Maybe. 

_ Cut it out. _

“Your dad works at the motel, right?”

David angles his head toward Patrick, his eyes still on the road. “He does.”

“Ray mentioned it,” Patrick elaborates shyly, rubbing at the base of his knuckles again. “He’s also told me firsthand.” 

“Huh. First, let me apologize for him roping you into what I’m assuming was a long conversation.” David says it jokingly and looking quickly, Patrick is smiling. That’s a yes, then.

“Your dad’s a pretty friendly guy. He seems to really enjoy working with you.”

David does his best not to smile at that. “He knows how to run a business and he started to get a bit…I guess you could say  _ restless  _ after moving here, so he offered to help us. It’s been good.”

“Is this your first time working with him?” 

“Yeah,” he answers, skeptical. “Why?”

“Well I just remember back in high school, when I worked at Rose Video, there were these company holiday cards and orientation videos that—“ 

“Oh my  _ god,  _ if we’re going to talk about that,” he waves a hand around, “embarrassing ordeal,  _ I’m  _ going to walk home.” 

“What was embarrassing about it?”

“Um, my dad making us pose in matching holiday sweaters, that’s  _ one,”  _ David grimaces, “and my hair and fashion choices back then were less than ideal.” 

Patrick’s laughing next to him, a full-blown laugh that floods the car with noise. David breathes through his teeth hard.

“Please stop,” he pleads. 

“I just can’t believe that I didn’t put two-and-two together about you being  _ that  _ Rose. It didn’t click until your dad mentioned it.”

“Did you tell him you worked there?”

A beat. “Yeah.”

“And  _ that  _ is why that conversation was so long,” David concludes, drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel.

“David, it was a very nice conversation. I promise that you have nothing to be embarrassed about,” Patrick says after a moment, his tone gentle. 

David relaxes his shoulders with a huff. “Okay.” 

“Can I buy you lunch or something in thanks for helping me out back there?” 

David braves one more look over at Patrick as he drives, a longer one this time, but only by a second. His eyes are wide and pleading. 

He really can’t say no. “Sure. Where?”

“Anywhere. You decide, I’ll pay.” 

He thinks for a moment, contemplating between the really good French bakery in Elmdale or the pizza joint around the corner from it. He’s also sure that they’ve had enough food from the café to satiate them both.

“All right…I know a place.”

**

They sit with four slices between the two of them; a neopolitan and a specialty slice apiece, though David makes a face at Patrick’s decision to get barbecue chicken. 

David needs to seriously suppress a moan as he takes his first bite. He can’t do that in front of Patrick -- that would be mortifying. 

But it  _ is  _ really good pizza. All pizza is good pizza, David could argue, even trashy pizza from a big chain delivered at two in the morning. Sure, the sauce here probably isn’t homemade, but it's really damn good, whatever they use. He’s debating bringing a pie home when he remembers that Stevie’s working late tonight, and he doesn’t really want to subject himself to eating the whole thing alone.

“Are you  _ sure  _ you don’t want to try a bite?” Patrick holds up his slice of barbecue chicken. 

“You do understand that barbecue sauce on pizza is just incorrect, right?”

Patrick looks at him, clearly bemused. “It’s incorrect?”

“Yes!”

“David, your slice has pasta on it.”

“There’s a difference; it’s baked ziti.” 

Patrick tilts his head with a laugh and goes back to his food. 

“Can I ask you something?” Patrick asks after another bite. “You don’t have to answer if I’m overstepping.” 

He swallows before answering, “Sure.” 

Patrick looks hesitant for a moment; he even looks like he’s going to wave it off, but he finally says something. “Why did your family move to Schitt’s Creek?”

“Ha, my dad didn’t mention it to you already?” He quizzes back in a joking way.

Patrick shakes his head. 

“His business manager stole all of our money, and that’s really the start and the end of it,” David mutters, unable to look at him. He wipes his hands on a paper napkin and continues, “We lost most of our possessions, too, and I was already here when it happened.” He shrugs a little, “There was a spare block of rooms at the motel, so I told them to come here and…that’s really it.” 

Patrick squints, “Is that why you left New York?”

“No, I was being honest when I said that I sold the gallery and moved here to help Stevie. There were roughly six months between those tumultuous events.” He forces out a laugh but manages to cut himself off quickly. “I’m lucky I did, or things would have been much worse for us.” 

When he braves a look at Patrick, his expression is one of sympathy. David really can’t handle that, and when Patrick opens his mouth, he interrupts. 

“Don’t apologize for something you had nothing to do with,” he says, clearly beating Patrick to the punch. “It’s behind us now, and despite my mother’s complaints and occasional dramatic fits, we’re fine.” 

Patrick eases back into his chair. “Okay,” he replies simply. 

He’s smiling at David with some lingering, unreadable expression. 

_ Soft,  _ David thinks.  _ It’s soft.  _

He wants to turn away abruptly and change the subject to something else entirely unrelated, but David can’t seem to do it. Instead, for a short moment, he studies Patrick. 

There’s a fair amount of stubble decorating his pale jawline and chin, but it doesn’t make the soft features of Patrick’s face appear sharper. Older, maybe, but only just. He’s certainly younger than David is, at least by a few years, but his face shows no signs of real age. 

His cheeks are a little red, too, probably from being out in the sun for so long, and David wonders offhandedly if their SPF talk actually came to fruition.

“So, on an entirely unrelated note,” Patrick says, and David blinks himself out of his trance. 

He steels himself for a moment, hands balled into fists before he actually continues. “I found an apartment.”

“Congratulations,” David chimes, chin in-hand. 

“Thank you. I’m pretty much moved in and I’m having some people over Friday night. I’d like it if you came, too. Maybe ask Stevie?”

“I’d love to. Do you need me to bring anything, or is there a dress code or…something?”

Patrick shakes his head, “No dress code. It’s really just going to be a bunch of us hanging out having some drinks. I invited Twyla, too, and I don’t know if you know Ted?”

“I know Ted,” David answers bluntly, “Alexis literally never shuts up about Ted.”

“Oh, are they dating?”

“I have no idea what’s going on there, she works with him at the clinic.” David pushes down the unwarranted jealousy growing in his stomach when Patrick asks about Ted. “I’m sure they’ve made out in one of the examination rooms at this point, but I don’t care enough to ask.”

Patrick tilts his head to the side, eyebrows raised. “That’s…sanitary.”

“Is it?”

“So you’ll come?” 

“Yep,” he nods, “Yeah, yes. Absolutely. What time?”

“Seven o’clock.”

“Seven o’clock it is. I’ll bring wine.” 

“You really don’t have to,” Patrick insists, “I already have enough of it.”

“Patrick, I’m not just going to show up to a housewarming empty handed. I’ll bring  _ one  _ bottle, that’s it.”

Patrick sighs in defeat. “Fine, fine. Thank you.”

“And you’re sure there’s no dress code? No theme?”

“Just wear whatever you’d like. Just maybe not a tux.it might be a little too formal.” 

“Fine.” David presses his lips into a smile. “What about a leather jacket?”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! You can find me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acne Studios, folks, Acne Studios. 
> 
> All I’m saying is that I was lovingly bullied into rewriting that aspect of this chapter based on the comments on the last, because he was not wearing it prior to posting.
> 
> So let's be honest here: I would be a fool to not have David wear his DTF leather jacket.

“Da- _ vid!”  _

Alexis waltzes into the office Friday morning, way too chipper in her running gear, and David has to immediately suppress the urge to reach for the bottle of ibuprofen Stevie stashes in the desk drawer.

There’s a lilt in Alexis’ voice that makes David think two things: one, she needs something, or two, she  _ did  _ something.

He looks up from the computer screen, eyes narrowed. “What?” He bites.

Fingertips dragging gingerly over the desk, her wrists bent downwards, Alexis smirks. “Guess who I just ran into?”

“Can ‘who’ be ‘what,’ and can that ‘what’ be oncoming traffic? I’m in the middle of something.”

“Um, rude, David.” She angles her chin at him. “I just saw sweet little Patrick at the café, and he told me about his housewarming tonight. It sounds very cute.”

“Yep,” is David’s short reply, his attention turned back to the computer screen.

“He invited me -- not that I wasn’t already going with Ted anyway.”

David closes his eyes, willing away the growing ache at his temples. “He invited you? To his apartment.”

She nods, a hand fanned out under her chin. “He did. So I guess we’re all going together.”

“I’m sorry,  _ all?” _

“Yes. Me, you, Stevie. Patrick said there wasn’t a dress code, but I have an odd feeling it’ll be super casual. So I’ll be dressing to the nines.”

Of course she will. “Why? This isn’t some gala, it’s a  _ housewarming  _ in a business major’s apartment.” David hits  _ send  _ on the email he was working on and sighs, annoyed. 

“Okay, I don’t do casual,” Alexis replies with wide eyes, “I do all or nothing.”

“Tell that to all the guys you’ve slept with abroad,” is David’s impatient grumble, remembering the time he had to pick her up from a CEO's swanky hotel during their trip to Belize. If David’s remembering correctly, it was two in the morning, minimum.

_ “You _ do casual, David, not me.” 

“Oh my  _ god,  _ Alexis. I’m working. I’m busy. Do you have a point to make, or are you just here to watch me slam my head against this desk repeatedly until I concuss?”

“Would you chill? I was just coming by to ask if you’d give me a ride tonight.”

He gestures at her with stiff, clawed fingers. “You  _ just  _ said you were going with Ted. Why can’t he drive you?”

“I  _ am _ going with Ted, he just has a late appointment tonight so he’s meeting us there.” She twirls the end of her ponytail around one finger and gives him a little pout. “Please, David?”

“Fine,” he says, giving in with a roll of his eyes. “But we’re heading over at eight sharp, and I will not be waiting for you.”

Alexis claps her hands together with a little, “Yay!”

David shoots her a look and she stops abruptly.

“What’s going on with you two, anyway?” He asks as he scrolls through the rest of his emails.

Alexis gets a little sheepish at the question, her mouth pressing into a tiny smile. “It’s…new,” she answers, still playing with her hair. She twists a little on the spot, back and forth. “And it’s probably frowned upon to be dating someone you’re technically working with.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before,” he jabs, making a face.

“Shush. Anyway, Ted’s really sweet. I like him a lot, actually.”

Alexis smiles off into the distance, her gaze dreamlike. As much as they rib each other, David is happy knowing his sister is happy. Regardless of their bickering, they’re protective of one another, a deeply-ingrained and unspoken sibling bond that’s been around for centuries.

David would go to war for Alexis, even if he never does say it aloud. He knows that she would do just the same. Even if she  _ does _ annoy him.

He offers up a smile. “Good. Ted’s a good guy. A little dorky, but you deserve it.”

“I deserve dorky?”

“If it’s Ted, yeah.”

She taps a finger on the desk, “You deserve it, too. Someone good.” 

David just hums in response and ignores the way she eyes him.

“What’s going on with you and  _ Patrick?” _

“Nothing,” he mutters, his throat going dry. “We’re…friends?”

“Friends,” Alexis echoes. “I don’t think ‘friends’ look at each other like that.”

“Like what?” David knows he’s going to regret asking. And he is very much correct.

“Like you’re this…I don’t know, the most incredible thing he’s seen? Like you promised him the moon and you gave him that  _ and  _ the stars.” She lets out a dreamy sigh. 

“That’s incredibly cheesy,” he counters. “What novel targeted toward divorced middle-aged women are you plagiarizing right now?”

“It’s true!” Alexis throws her hands up in the air with a grunt.

“What are you talking about?”

“When you and I went to the bar last week, Patrick came over and sat with us, you were complaining about something and he just kept smiling like he was hanging onto everything you were babbling about. And today, all I did was mention you, and his eyes lit up and got all big, and he got this dopey smile on his face. He’s like a Disney Prince, David.”

“Patrick Brewer is  _ not  _ a Disney Prince.” 

“Listen, all I’m saying is that someone doesn’t make that face when they’re just interested in being friends with the other person.” She cocks her head to the side and taps the desk again. “Believe me, I’ve seen it.”

David doesn’t even want to dignify his own curiosity, but his stomach is currently flipping at Alexis’ insinuation, and it’s all he can focus on. He swallows the lump in his throat.

“Maybe just give it a chance?” Her voice softens. “Patrick is a really nice guy.”

“He’s been here five minutes, Alexis, I barely know him.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t get to,” she shrugs. 

It’s not entirely rare that Alexis gets like this; insistent and entirely genuine regarding David’s own happiness, it’s just that she normally does it in a more mocking way. This time, his sister sounds nearly like she’s trying to convince him. 

It sits with him a little weird.

David shakes his head. “He’s not…he’s probably not into me.” 

“Uh-huh. You tell that to yourself when you see him tonight,” Alexis chides, leaning further over the desk, “and then ask yourself if you feel the same way.” 

“Who are you, my therapist?”

“David, you and I both know that you haven’t seen a therapist since 2014.” 

His face heats, “The gallery was opening. I got busy.”

He turns away, busying himself with stacking and restacking loose papers that sit in a mess across the desk. Alexis is still hovering over him as if she’s waiting for something when she reaches over the desk to grab his right hand.

“You know, Patrick has one, too.”

“Ew!” David pulls his hand from her grasp. “Don’t touch me!” 

“Relax, I’m just trying to get a good look at that scar!” 

“Well, can you not?” He snaps, voice high. “I don’t like the damn thing. What are you even talking about, anyway?”

“Patrick has a scar, too.”

“I’d argue that most people have scars,” David replies wittily, “it just depends on whether or not they’re physical.”

“Re: that later. Patrick has a scar. On his pinky,” Alexis clarifies, a hand still reaching out for his. David keeps it folded in his lap.

“So?”

“So…” And she’s smirking again. The ache in his temples is back, and his sister is smirking at him.  _ Great.  _ “It’s kind of weird right?”

He shrugs noncommittally. “Sure. Did he actively point this out to you or something?”

“No, we were sitting at the counter chatting, and he kept rubbing at his right pinky like it was bothering him.” She pauses as if she’s waiting for David to react a certain way, but when he keeps staring at her, Alexis continues. “He was, like, scratching at it, too.”

“Maybe he cut it while doing paperwork or something equally boring and it’s just healing?”

“It’s too thick to be a paper cut.”

“You can get cuts from cardboard,” he argues.

“David.” Alexis’ voice is shrill and he does  _ not  _ like where she’s going with this. “It wraps around his entire finger.”

Well, fuck. There it is. 

Alexis continues, coming around the desk and hopping up onto the narrow space. David twists in his seat, his hands still clasped in his lap. 

“Unless he actively stuck his finger into a pencil sharpener or he’s really into tying ropes or something—“ David’s mind immediately whizzes in a  _ very _ different direction. “—I’m just thinking that it’s very similar to the one you have on your right pinky. Remember what I said about that red string of fate or whatever?”

“The old wives’ tale.”

“Maybe it’s really a thing,” she finalizes, “Maybe that’s a thing for you.”

David shuts his eyes tight. “Okay, Alexis. What did I say weeks ago? It’s not a thing.” He stands up, nearly knocking the chair over from the sheer force. “It’s a myth. It’s not a thing, and this isn’t a shitty made-for-TV romcom.”

“Can you at least think about it? Just humor me.” 

“No. It’s stupid,” he insists as he gathers up his things. He’s had more than enough of this conversation on a far-fetched conspiracy theory and he is ready for it to end.

“Soulmates are a thing, David—“

“They are  _ not  _ a thing, Alexis.”

“Yeah? Then what are Mom and Dad?”

David stops in his tracks.  _ What are Mom and Dad?  _ “They’re two people who have learned to live together for a long time,” he replies bluntly. Granted, it’s a bit indignant because of his current frustration with his sister.

“You’re telling me Mom and Dad don’t love each other? That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“I never said that. They’re clearly head-over-heels in love with each other. They’ve been together, what, forty years? But that doesn’t mean they’re soulmates because, and I repeat,  _ they are not a thing.”  _

“Fine. Be that way.” She hip-checks David out of the way and makes strides to the door. “Just give it some thought, David. Patrick’s sweet, and if you don’t believe it, he’s here now. It might be something.”

David doesn’t get to snap at her because the door is already slamming behind her.

**

“Wow. You look…nice.” Stevie’s eyes are wide as she stands in the doorway of David’s room, her hands planted firmly on her hips.

He turns to smile and thank her over one shoulder, bouncing slightly, before giving her a double-take. “Is that what you’re wearing?” He asks, circling a hand at her.

She looks down at herself; jeans, her usual Converse, and a red flannel hoodie. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

David pulls his lips tight, something between a grimace and a grin. “You just look…casual?”

“Patrick said casual,” Stevie deadpans, “we’re not going to a club.”

“I know that.” He turns back to the full-length mirror to fix a piece of hair that’s intent on sticking up. 

“So is your leather ‘I want to get laid’ jacket deemed casual, then?”

David spins around again sharply to shoot Stevie an insanely wide smile, his head falling to the side. “It is, thanks!” 

“You’re also wearing leather pants.”

His shoulders drop after a second. “Now I feel like I’m overdressed.”

“What, you?” She snorts, “Never.” 

He tugs the jacket off and sets it on a hanger delicately. David glances down at his graphic tee and takes that off, too, pulling out a grey Marc Jacobs piece with a black square and two x’s on the chest. He gives himself a once-over in the mirror before ripping it off again.

Now he’s standing shirtless in front of his closet and Stevie and—

“Hey!”

_ Alexis. _ “Did you give her a key?”

“No,” Stevie answers as Alexis pops into a view, “I left the door unlocked and texted her to just come in.”

Alexis pulls a disgusted look the second she sees David. “Ugh, gross! Put a shirt on!”

“Why can’t you wait out in the hallway?”

“How are you not dressed yet? We have to be there in, like, half an hour!”

David ignores her to dig out an undershirt. He eventually settles on an entirely different tee with a leather panel motif, then shoos them both from the room so he can change into a better-suited pair of ripped jeans. Ultimately, David says  _ fuck it _ and throws the jacket back on just to spite everyone.

It’s a leather jacket. It’s sexy, it’s impossible  _ not  _ to be sexy when wearing a leather jacket. 

Not that he was going for “sexy,” not at all. Whatever.

David finds them both on the sofa, Alexis on her phone and Stevie spinning her keys mindlessly around one finger.

“I’m ready, let’s go,” he says impatiently, grabbing the bottle of wine he bought from the kitchen counter.

Stevie eyes him. “You really changed three times,” she states.

“He changed  _ three  _ times? Oh my god, you totally like Patrick!”

The girls smirk at each other, and David lets out a frustrated noise. “Hi, this feels like high school, so can we stop? Thanks.” 

“He went from full leather to  _ this,”  _ he hears Stevie say to Alexis as they make their way downstairs, “Less leather, so I think this is actually toning it down. He’s wearing actual black jeans now.”

The ride there is almost too long and too tantalizing for David to deal with as he fidgets with his rings. Stevie’s driving is terrible, and if they were going any further than Patrick’s apartment complex just outside of town, he’s sure he’d be getting carsick.

Alexis has herself pressed between the front seats while she and Stevie animatedly irritate David by talking about Patrick and guessing what his new apartment might look like.

“I bet he’s got a full bar cart,” Stevie suggests. “I know that beer’s his first choice, but I bet he’s got good rye, high-quality vodka. He probably has the stuff to make a mean Old Fashioned.”

“Oh, totally,” Alexis agrees excitedly. She pokes at David’s shoulder. “It’s probably well-decorated, too. Right, David?”

“We’ll literally see it in five minutes,” he proclaims, swatting her hand away.

Stevie glances over at David. “Do you think he has Blue Jays or Leafs memorabilia everywhere? He probably does. A big pennant having over his bed, a replica hockey stick on a wall somewhere…” She smirks a bit. “Fully-stocked fridge.”

“Mh-hm, mh-hm, mh-hm.” David twists the dial on the radio volume to drown out their snickering in response. He tries his very best to ignore the juvenile butterflies sitting low in his stomach while he glances out the window.

“I bet he’s organized,” Stevie adds loudly over the music. David scoffs.

**

Said butterflies do  _ not  _ go away. In fact, when Patrick answers the door in a tight royal blue sweater, the feeling escalates. It’s almost too much for David to handle. The same goes for his jeans which David,  _ ahem,  _ pointedly does not look at.

He  _ doesn’t.  _

He grips the bottle tight in his hands, and when Patrick makes his rounds hugging each of them as they come in, David notes how strong his hold is.

It’s firm, solid, and David’s lips are pinched in an off-set smile as he rests his chin on Patrick’s shoulder. He would be perfectly content being held by this man forever.

Okay, maybe that is a bit extreme, but his fantasizing is cut short by Patrick leaving his arms.

“I’m so happy you guys could make it!” He takes the bottle from David, ushering them in. 

It’s a studio apartment, small, with one entire room, but perfect for someone like Patrick. It’s well-decorated, warm in atmosphere, and it is, in fact, organized. It could use some actual closet space, though, because from what David can see, the closet is just a set of narrow doors built into a wall.

Other than Twyla, who Alexis rushes over to hug, David doesn’t recognize the handful of other people.

Patrick must notice David’s slight apprehension, however. He begins introducing them to David one-by-one — Logans and Kims and other names that he certainly will not remember — as the people he plays baseball with.

“It’s a recreational league,” he explains happily, “Our team’s sponsored by Café Tropical. You should come sometime; I think you’d have a lot of fun.”

David hums, one brow arched. “I’m sure I would.” 

“You don’t have to know anything about baseball to watch a game, David,” Patrick comforts. “Sometimes it’s just the camaraderie that makes it fun.”

“I can count on one hand the times I’ve been to any sports game, and they were mostly in the Owner’s Box or filled with so much booze that I didn’t really have to pay attention.”

David’s face goes flush, suddenly embarrassed. “But I would like to come to one of your games one day,” he adds in lieu of correction.

“I look forward to it. Can I get you anything to drink?”

_ Stevie was right about the bar cart,  _ he thinks.

David picks up an open wine bottle and sniffs it. It takes everything in his power to hold in a noise of disgust.

“What the hell is—Oh. No,  _ nope!  _ Pour this out right now!” 

Patrick appears both concerned and amused as David tips the bottle over the sink, letting its dark contents run out. 

“What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” David repeats in a higher octave. “It’s fruit wine. I’m sure the guy who makes the stuff is very nice, if not a little bit confused, since he makes wine out of fruit that should definitely not be wine, but this stuff is just  _ sinful.”  _

“Sinful?” Now it’s Patrick’s turn to repeat him. “Is that really the right word?”

David only responds by methodically uncorking the bottle he brought, locking eyes with Patrick as he pours two generous glasses.

“This is for you. Cheers.”

“Cheers.” They tap their glasses, Patrick sipping the wine thoughtfully. “Mh, much better than the other stuff.”

“It’s no Caymus,” David states, “but it’ll do.”

Patrick’s entire face lights up as he laughs. It’s bright, it’s clear, and David has to pinch the skin of his right hand and turn away with his lips tucked inward. He takes a look at the rest of the space. There’s a fireplace too, which would certainly make the room way too hot if not for the fact that it is also incredibly charming.

A nice evening in front of the fireplace is not something David should think about, but he is. He shakes himself, notes the bed across the room, and for once he is very happy that he and Stevie have doors to their respective bedrooms in their apartment. Having his bed on display when a bunch of people are over like this screams some kind of awkward.

It’s then that he sees it. A hard black case carefully propped up beside Patrick’s desk.

“Is that your guitar?” David gestures to it with his drink.

“It is.” Patrick looks over at it. “Don’t worry, it’s not that kind of party. I won’t be singing.”

“Shame,” David hears himself mutter into his glass. He doesn’t think Patrick heard him, because he’s giving David a clap on the shoulder and telling him to make himself comfortable.

“I have to go be a gracious host. I’ll catch up.”

Alexis finds him — not that it’s hard, Patrick’s apartment is only so big — hovering by the spread of food in the kitchen.

“You should see your face when you talk to him.”

He scoffs, setting a few pieces of cheese onto his plate. They’re talking about faces again. Great.

“Whatever. I told you so,” she stage whispers. 

“What did you tell me?”

Alexis does some sort of fluttery wink and says, “Patrick’s hand. Did you not see it?”

“N-no.” David clears his throat. “I wasn’t actively looking at his hands. I was just enjoying his company.”

“You say that now.”

“Alexis, what—“

“Just watch his hands, but don’t make it weird because you have a tendency to do that—“

“—Excuse me?”

“Then go ‘enjoy his company,’ or whatever.” She turns to walk away, then stops herself. “Make a move.” And with that, she’s strutting back across the room toward Twyla, the heels of her booties clicking along the way.

_ Menace. _

**

David is happily buzzed. 

After Ted arrived, everyone was somehow rounded up in the living room on the couch, various chairs, and the floor. Two bottles were being passed around, and David has been fighting with Stevie over one of them since the start.

Alexis had shouted, “We should play spin the bottle,” which David vetoed by arguing that it was a game for horny teenagers and he would not be playing if she was in the circle.

Instead, embarrassing childhood stories and repressed memories were being shared, including a less-than-rousing story about a mangy dog from Ted’s early years of veterinary school. Patrick had made his way over to sit next to David on the couch, one arm slung along the back behind him.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just the fact that Stevie has just finished making her way through a story about how she was once pantsed in her high school gym class in sophomore year, but David is laughing so hard his cheeks hurt. He falls into Patrick’s side as he heaves a breath, and it takes a moment for him to realize he’s even there.

But Patrick doesn’t move to shake him off. He instantly wraps an arm around David’s shoulder and laughs along with him.

“I know everything about you!” David wheezes, wiping away falling tears. “How did I not know this?”

“Because it’s not something I actively share. I’m also drunk.” She takes another swig from the bottle of whiskey for emphasis. “What if I told everyone about the time I walked into your office at the gallery only to find you belting Bon Jovi into an empty bottle of champagne?”

David gasps, his laughter ceasing immediately. “You promised you wouldn’t bring that up again!” 

Stevie’s lips curl into a smirk. “Or the time the fire alarm went off in the middle of the night and you ran out into the hallway in nothing but your underwear—“

“Stop!” He falls forward with his face in his hands.

“Ooh! David!” The second Alexis starts speaking his stomach drops. The whole room turns toward her. “Remember when you used to sneak Mom’s wigs to wear to school and stole her eyeliner?”

“Okay, that was a phase,” he snaps, shooting daggers at his sister, “and I will not be shamed for wearing eyeliner. It was the early 2000’s.”

“I want pictures of that,” Stevie coughs beside him.

“Too bad. I burned any Alexis took along with the camera.”

Someone else picks up from there. David turns to Patrick, fingers pressed into his temples and mouths, “Sorry.”

Patrick leans in close, and in a voice low enough for only David to hear, he says, “If it makes you feel any better, when I was in first grade I wet my pants on stage during the spring pageant my school put on for our parents.”

David eases into the back of the couch, some of his earlier embarrassment melting away.

“And,” he continues, “during my very first open mic performance when I was fifteen, I was so nervous that I wound up sweating through two separate shirts. My mom had to run home and get me another ten minutes before I was due on stage.”

There’s something in Patrick’s voice that makes the commotion of the rest of the party fade away. He could be imagining things, but Patrick’s eyes flit down briefly to David’s lips. He doesn’t move -- neither of them do -- and they just sit completely still for two beats too long until someone’s wild laughter pulls them out of it.

Alexis is giving him a knowing smirk from her spot in Ted’s arms across the room, but David looks away, this time searching Patrick’s right hand for a mark along his pinky. Maybe,  _ maybe  _ there is the faintest discoloration from a scratch, but he doesn’t manage to get too good of a look.

Patrick moves his left hand over to dig his thumb into the base of his fingers, obstructing David’s view.

The party slowly trickles out, Alexis leaving with Ted and dragging a drunk Stevie along with her, promising to drop her off at their place. But Stevie pulls David aside before she even makes it out the door.

“You two have been hovering around each other all night,” she says with a poke to the side. Her breath reeks of liquor. “Make a move, Rose.”

David scrunches up his face, searching for something to say in retaliation, but Stevie stops him.

“Offer to help him clean or something.” She blinks hard as if she’s trying to concentrate on each of her words. There’s a glint in her eyes that David knows all too well.

“What are you—“

With her knee, Stevie tips over two half-filled cups that were left on the coffee table and watches in mock horror as they spill all over the carpet.

“Stevie!” David says it sharply enough through his teeth that the very few people left in the apartment turn towards the commotion.

“Oh, my bad!” She slaps a palm to her forehead. “I’m such a klutz! Shouldn’t have drank so much!”

Patrick’s already rushing over with a fistful of paper towels. “It’s fine,” he says, “it’ll come out.”

“Yeah, and David can help you because he knows how to do that and I totally don’t!”

David glares at her. “That is a  _ lie,”  _ he bites through gritted teeth.

“Bye! Thanks for the invite, Patrick!” She pretty much scurries out the door, Alexis pushing her with a wave and a toothy smile. 

He’s going to kill her. He’s going to kill them both.

They’re the last people in the apartment. Patrick is dabbing at the stain mercilessly, calling out a goodbye to the three of them as they shut the door. 

David wrings his hands together. He’s learned from the past; Stevie taught him how to get stains out when they first did a thorough scrubbing of the motel carpets. It’s a gross memory.

“That’s not going to be enough,” he says, “Do you have any baking soda?”

Patrick looks up at him. “In the cabinet by the microwave.”

He sniffs it out immediately, grabbing a hand towel and a small bowl filled with a bit of water along the way. 

“Here.” He nudges Patrick aside, mixing together the baking soda and water with a teaspoon. David begins spreading the paste-like mixture over the stain in an even layer until the whole splotch is covered.

“Now we just have to let this dry,” he breathes, setting the bowl on the coffee table. “And when it does, we’ll run a vacuum over it.”

_ Make a move, Rose.  _

“I’ll stick around. To, uh, show you. And help you clean up.”

“Thank you, David.” Patrick looks away momentarily and does it again; he rubs the base of his knuckles. “I’m going to have to remember that for next time.”

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time, and if there is, hopefully it won’t involve Stevie being the drunken culprit.” 

Patrick bobs his head to the side in a way of agreement. “It was an accident.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t.”

“No?” Patrick, for lack of a better term, looks a bit intrigued. “So she did it on purpose, then?”

David sits back on his heels, rolling his shoulders. “She did. That was her way of trying to get me to stay,” he pauses, his cheeks heating up at the admittance. He sways, a bit unsteady from the mix of alcohol.

A smile makes its way across Patrick’s lips, gentle and soft as he says, “I’m happy you did.” 

The moment hangs between them densely, both of them quiet and staring until Patrick makes a move to stand.

He pats his thighs, grabbing two garbage bags from under the sink and holds one out for David. They gather discarded napkins and paper plates and cups. David finds a lone cork on the floor by the fireplace and the empty bottle of whiskey from earlier tucked underneath the couch.

“Patrick, I hate to judge your choice of friends here, but they’re pigs.” He stands up and waves the bottle around. “Apparently the garbage is under your loveseat.”

Patrick snorts from where he’s clearing the kitchen table. “There was booze, David. Their inhibitions were low.”

“Just be happy that this was empty and there’s not another puddle of liquor seeping into your carpet right now.” David sets the bag by the door. “Did you hear from Bob about your car?”

“I did,” Patrick replies as he ties his bag. “Apparently, I need a new battery. He ordered one, and my car should be ready by tomorrow the latest. I owe him, though. Bob knocked off half the price for me.” 

“That’s nice of him. What year is it anyway?” David asks, fidgeting with the stirrers and bottles on the bar cart.

“2012, so not super old. But I’ve definitely put some miles on it, and like I said, I’ve had it for years.”

David can feel Patrick beside him before he can see him. He twists his ring.

“I never really thanked you for helping me out the other day,” Patrick murmurs.

“You did though.” David rotates a bottle. “Several times, and you bought me lunch. Which was unnecessary.” 

“David.”

“Mh?”

Patrick’s eyes are earnest. “I’m trying to ask you out, here.”

David’s heart stops. He swears it stops. There is a lot of confidence in Patrick’s voice, and he is so close that David can almost hear him breathing. He goes from eyes-lips-eyes and back to Patrick’s lips again before leaning in.

It is  _ everything.  _

Everything David had imagined and everything he never did. 

Patrick tastes like whiskey and something so much sweeter. It’s like electricity is coursing through David’s veins as one of Patrick’s hands slides up his back to rest at the base of his neck. Every cell feels like it’s on fire and vibrating, and for just a second David can see that bar again.

But the difference this time is that they’re wrapped around each other in a deepening kiss.

Patrick pulls back just to change his angle. David finds use of his hands again and pulls Patrick into him, smiling against his lips as he does so.

They part with a soft breath, David’s eyes fluttering open. Patrick’s own are big and shiny as he stares back into David’s. It’s taking everything for him not to dive back into the kiss or rush things and have his way with Patrick on the bed just steps away.

“So…is that a yes?” Patrick asks, voice going up a little.

“That’s  _ definitely  _ a yes. When would this date be?”

“Tomorrow night?” His brows move upwards. “If that’s alright by you.”

“Tomorrow’s good. Did you have a place in mind? Because if you didn’t, there’s a drive-in over in Elmdale…”

“We can definitely do the drive-in, but I think I’d like to save making out in the backseat of the car for the second date.” 

“Oh?” David cocks a brow. “Are you implying more than one date?”

“I am. But I would like to take you somewhere we won’t be interrupted. I have a feeling that if we went to the café and someone other than Twyla came up to us, you’d have a conniption.”

“I wouldn’t call it a conniption.” David presses his hands into Patrick’s sides, sighing after a beat. “But you’re probably right.”

Patrick smiles at that. “There’s a wine bar on the far side of Elmdale. I’ve heard it’s pretty low-key, so we shouldn’t have to worry about a noisy bar.”

David’s eyes go wide. “As long as the wine is good, it’ll be fun!” 

“Uh-huh.” Patrick dips in and kisses him again, soft and quick.

“I wore the leather jacket tonight,” David whispers lowly, giving his shoulders a bounce.

Patrick smirks in turn, his voice gravelly. “I see that. You look really good.”

“That’s a given.”

“It’s hot.”

“Mh, I am  _ definitely _ sweating.”

“David,” Patrick leans back infinitesimally. “Just take the compliment.”

“Okay,” he raises a finger, “But just know that I really am sweating right now and it is not at all pretty.” 

Patrick laughs and kisses David again. And again, and again, and again, until they lose track of time and David is dizzy from it all.

“Tomorrow, yeah?” Patrick murmurs dreamily, knocking the underside of David’s chin with a finger. “I’ll pick you up.” 

If this was any other person, David’s sure that he wouldn’t feel like this. Being asked out in the past usually meant split checks or was a result of constant hookups with a now-nameless person. Sure, most of the time David was interested in the other person at first, but the novelty eventually (and quickly) wore off.

But with Patrick there was just…something. Patrick made him feel something totally different. Honest excitement? A thrill? The fact that, for once in David’s life, he was actually interested in a genuinely nice guy, not just some looker?

Whatever it is, David’s blissfully happy. 

They don’t say goodnight for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! You can find me[@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Come yell with me about that leather jacket!


	5. Chapter 5

It’s like he’s walking on air. David hasn’t stopped smiling since he left Patrick’s. He even took the long way home — which involved circling his block twice — just to replay everything in the privacy of the car.

He’s beaming like an idiot as he unlocks the door to his apartment. 

The lamp beside the sofa is on, its warm hue washing over Stevie who’s curled up with her face buried in the pillows. David switches it off and drapes a blanket over her. He rolls his eyes a little; she’s still fully dressed, save for her shoes which have been kicked off. 

David’s smiling doesn’t subside as he gets ready for bed. At this point, his cheeks are starting to hurt, but what does he care? He just keeps thinking about the kiss —  _ kisses,  _ the borderline make out session — with Patrick. He can still feel the scratch of Patrick’s light stubble against his upper lip, the way he tastes, the swooping feeling in his stomach. 

He pats his face dry with a towel. In the mirror, he looks the same; his own darkened stubble, the line between this brows sitting less prominent since they’re relaxed. David didn’t expect to look any different, but he feels it. 

Refreshed? Rejuvenated? Brand new? Is that even appropriate terminology for someone who just kissed someone he really likes for the first time? Who knows. 

It’s true, though. David feels great and there’s a surge of something, maybe adrenaline, that won’t let him sleep tonight. He hasn’t felt this way about kissing anyone…ever. The closest David thinks he’s ever gotten was after his very first kiss with a girl whose name he can’t remember from a summer camp his father forced him to go to. 

All he really remembers is being fourteen, a bonfire, the strong scent of citronella, and a bit of excitement. That was it. 

David removes his rings one by one, setting them in the dish on his nightstand. He uncaps the tin of fading balm and rubs a small amount over the reddened line on his finger. He’s been diligent about it, following Brenda’s instructions that matched what was written on the label and using it morning and night. There’s no visible progress yet — it’s only been a few days — but David remains hopeful.

The minutes tick on by as he stares at the ceiling, his bedroom dark, sighing to himself with his fingers laced over the comforter. He debates texting Patrick, but what the hell would he even say?  _ “Thank you for the kiss, it was the best one of my life?”  _

That would be way too fucking forward. 

The bedroom door creaks open and there’s all of two seconds between that and Stevie belly-flopping onto the mattress next to him.

“Why are you in my bed?” David grunts, the mattress bouncing under him.

Stevie gathers up a pillow in her arms and presses into it. “Because I’m drunk,” she breathes out, “And your room is colder.” 

David knows she’s half-asleep when she stops wriggling around beside him, but he just can’t hold it in any longer.

“I kissed Patrick tonight,” he whispers into the dark.

Eventually, on an exhale, Stevie mumbles, “Good. Finally,” and her hand finds his chest to pat him there. He’s happy she can’t see the face he makes.

Stevie’s out like a light beside him right after that, but David stays awake for much longer.

**

A stack of papers, a notebook, and a binder are dropped on the table in front of him with a  _ thud,  _ making David jump a food out of his seat. He looks up from his book to find his sister smirking over him.

“Why are you all smiley?”

He adjusts his face accordingly. “I’m not,” he replies, unconvincingly, and turns back to his page. It’s about now that he realizes he’s read over the same paragraph three times without retaining any prevalent information.

David has better things on his mind, anyway: Patrick.

“Yes you are.” Alexis slides into the chair across from him and leans closer. “You had this big, dreamy look on your face when I walked in. And before you ask,” she holds up a finger, “this is my room, so  _ no,  _ I do not have to knock.” 

And, well. Shit, she does have a point. 

David sits back, the chair creaking under his weight, as Alexis studies him. She squints, taking in every feature. 

“What happened after we left last night?” 

“Nothing,” he says shortly, eyes darting back to his book. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“So don’t believe me!” He throws up his hands, and as hard as he tries to keep his smile at bay, he really can’t.

“You kissed him,” Alexis concludes, her arms folding over her chest. She purses her lips into a pinched little smile.

David closes the book, his fingers pressed into the cover. “Yes.”

“Oh my god, David,  _ finally!”  _ Alexis launches herself out of her chair to throw her arms around him. She stumbles a little in her heels, and David nearly falls off his seat at the force of her embrace. 

“Okay, okay! Get off!” He attempts to unwrap her arms from his shoulders, but her grip is strong.

“I’m so happy for you!” She exclaims into his shirt.

“Alexis, get off of me—“

“What’s going on here?”

Alexis’ hands slowly move to David’s shoulders from behind as their mother walks in, her face mostly blocked out by a thick pair of cat eye sunglasses.

“—David just had a really good day—“

“Alexis is being a nuisance—“

She studies them both, her red lips parted slightly. “Yes, well. I heard a disturbance of shrill voices—“ Alexis and David exchange a glance. “—and grew wary, but seeing as you two are unscathed, I suppose it was unnecessary.” 

David gives her a pressed look. 

“Now, David, what good day did you have?”

“He kissed Patrick,” Alexis chimes. David smacks her in the side and she does it right back.

“Oh, well isn’t  _ he  _ just an entrancing young gentleman!” She claps her hands together, adorned in fingerless gloves, and smiles at her son. “Good for you!” 

David throws his head back toward the ceiling and breathes in deeply. “Oh my god—“

“He’s just the cutest thing, right Mom?” Alexis skirts around to stand beside their mother, her smirk still evident. 

“Indeed he is!”

“M’kay, are we done here?” David asks sharply, waving stiff hands at them.

“David, will you just allow yourself this joyous moment?” His mother sets her hands on her hips. “You do spend so much time scowling.”

He scoffs, “I don’t scowl—“

“Yes you do,” Alexis interrupts.

“Alexis, stick a fork in an electrical socket. I was just trying to read my book in peace!” David nearly cries in exasperation. He’s fading, here.

“Fine.” His mother holds her chin up high and looks at Alexis. “I’m off, then. Rehearsal with the Jazzagals and some tending to council,” she announces in her flowing tone. She hangs on the doorframe to give David one last look before disappearing.

Alexis twists back around to him with a big grin. “So, I want to know everything.” She sits with her hands fanned out under her chin.

“We kissed,” David says, “I already told you everything.” 

“Just one kiss? Yeah, no way.” 

He wills himself to stay sane. “More than one kiss,” he breathes slowly. “Like…a lot of them.”

“So, like a full on make out session with tongue, then?”

_ “Stop.”  _

“Whatever. I wanted to show you something anyway.” Alexis sifts through her pile until she finds what she’s looking for; a packet of three or four pages stapled together that she passes over to David.

“What’s this?” He begins to scan the front document only to realize it’s actually several articles put together, all of them having to do with his sister’s little red string theory.

“Okay,” he tosses it onto the table again, “why are you showing me this?”

“Because, David,” Alexis pushes the papers back toward him, “now that you and Patrick are actually a thing—“

“We’re not a thing,” he corrects, “we’re barely a thing, if that.”

“Uh-huh. You’ll figure out labels later,” she insists with a wave, “but now that the two of you have finally broken the ice—“

“—Ew—“

“—maybe you’ll start to believe me on this whole soulmate thing.” Alexis presses a hand to her chest before continuing, “I’m your sister, and I’l like to think I know you well enough to see when someone is right for you.” 

“We  _ just  _ kissed last night!.” David tries to reason, but Alexis doesn’t budge. He slumps back with a huff, his arms folded.

“These are all firsthand accounts of soulmates.” She slides a red-covered book across the table. “Some of them date back a few hundred years to Scotland and Italy, but there are more modern ones. Like—here, this one.” She thumbs through the pages until she find the passage. “A couple in Colorado that found each other in 2002, all because they got snowed-in at a hotel. It’s actually super cute, so you should read it.”

Alexis turns back to the packet now, “And there are these tells, too. Like, first of all, everyone who has a soulmate has the same scar on their pinky—“

“If it’s everyone,” David interrupts bitterly, “then how would anyone know that it’s one person over someone else?” He actually hates his own curiosity, but actively looking for plot holes is helping. 

Alexis taps one paragraph in particular, the subtitle reading  _ Meanings  _ in stark letters. “It doesn’t show up until you meet the other person.”

David ignores the hard thrum of his heart and clears his throat. “Sure.”

“Let me ask you something: Did you have that scar before you met Patrick?”

He hesitates. “I—I don’t…”

Alexis raises her eyebrows. “Answer that for yourself. Anyway,” she turns the pages toward her to get a closer look. “Oh! Other indications include irritation at the site of the scar as if it’s healing, but never does. This usually happens when the other party is nearby or about to show up.” A  _ ‘V’  _ forms between her eyebrows as she concentrates. “Um…Oh, this is interesting. Carrying on from that, soulmates always know where their partner is. Like, if they’re close enough in proximity, some people report being able to find them just by intuition alone.” She looks up at him. “Isn’t that crazy?”

“Totally.” David is trying his best not to bolt out of the room. He’s told Alexis before that the whole idea of soulmates is  _ bullshit,  _ yet here she is with articles she probably found through Wikipedia or Buzzfeed. 

“Do any of these ring a bell?” She sets her chin into one hand. 

His finger does bother him from time to time, a little worse-off in the beginning when it felt like it was actually healing into what it is now and he wasn’t used to it. But even on occasion, it still prickles and itches.

David just shrugs, not wanting to outright admit anything to Alexis. 

“So I’m going to leave these with you,” she announces, handing the papers back over. She taps on the binding of the red book. “I found this online. It’s a bunch of stories, but it also has the origin of the Red String Theory.” Alexis gives David a gentle pat on the arm. “This could be really good for you, David. Soulmates are  _ rare.”  _

Her words linger in his head after she retreats, his interest in the novel he was reading long gone.

**

**_Patrick_ **

**_[2:55 P.M.]_ **

**_Hi! Are we still on for tonight?_ **

**_I’ve been busy all morning, sorry for not texting sooner._ **

David smiles at the notification.

After Alexis completely disturbed his peaceful morning, David went back to his apartment and stuffed everything she’d given him into the bottom of his bag. He’d let it haunt him later.

He wound up doing busywork just to keep his mind off the fact that his sister is a pain and apparently did heavy research into a very stupid topic.

It’s like that very short period when she was sixteen and got into crystals. She spent weeks leaving a bunch around for David to find. Alexis claimed that their auras would help him: clear quartz for focus, blue lace agate for anxiety, and howlite for stress and insomnia. He yelled at her for leaving a red jasper on his dresser with a note that said  _ “for sexuality and invigorated libido,”  _ claiming it was an invasion of privacy.

Also,  _ gross.  _ Sex advice (if you could even call it that) from his sister.  _ Ugh.  _

Really, David thought she was Alexis was incredibly stupid for wasting money on something that was so clearly a hoax just because they’re pretty. However, he will forever deny that he still keeps the small smoky quartz she gave him for general luck in the secret zipper pocket of his duffle bag. 

David doesn’t necessarily believe in good luck charms (the whole idea of a rabbit’s foot is revolting, thanks) but whenever Alexis was in trouble he would worry the angled, polished stone between his fingers until he knew she was safe.

So yes, while Alexis had done research into the meaning of crystals or whatever, this whole soulmate situation was just…different. She was seemingly doing it all for David. She’d even gone through the trouble of circling and highlighting parts of the articles she’d given him, and when he flipped through the book, she had done just the same.

David sinks back into his pillows with tea and a set of comically large under-eye masks as he taps out a reply to Patrick.

**_[3:10 P.M.]_ **

**_don’t worry, looking forward to tonight. what time were you thinking?_ **

Patrick doesn’t respond to him right away, not that David was expecting him to. He flips on the TV, mind wandering while some nonsensical show plays out on the screen until his phone finally buzzes again.

**_Patrick_ **

**_[3:30 P.M.]_ **

**_I can swing by and get you around 7. Got my car back, it seems to be in working order._ **

**_[3:31 P.M.]_ **

**_perfect. stevie’s working tonight so it’ll be safe for you to come up before we go. if you want._ **

**_Patrick_ **

**_[3:40 P.M.]_ **

**_Can’t wait!_ **

**

When he was a kid, David’s nervous habits included nail biting up until the age of twelve when it turned into cuticle-biting. That only last ed about six months until his mother and bi-weekly manicures kicked it out of his system. After that, it was lip biting, followed by a brief period of cracking his knuckles, pulling at the hair on the nape of his neck, and finally, the least physically harmful of them all, pacing. 

Which he’s currently doing back and forth between the kitchen and the living room as he plays with his rings.

The rings came into play on David’s twenty-seventh birthday; a gift to himself that became both a staple to his wardrobe as well as a set of armor. Since then, they’re the source of a lot of fidgeting, twisting, and rearranging on his fingers when he’s anxious.

Now combine that with the pacing when David was reeling and he could knock a person right over. 

He picked out his outfit for tonight as soon as he woke up this morning, changed his shirt  _ once,  _ and was ready and waiting for Patrick nearly half an hour early. He could make himself a drink, ease the nerves and all that, but there would certainly be wine pairings tonight since Patrick was taking him to a  _ wine bar,  _ so David opted to keep the alcohol stashed away.

He couldn’t sit still no matter how hard he tried; even the extra-long shower didn’t help. 

David is in the middle of rearranging the throw pillows when his phone alerts him at ten-to-seven with a text from Patrick saying he was here, and he buzzes him in. The time it takes for him to reach David’s floor is too excruciating, and he has the door opened just as Patrick is raising his hand to knock.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” 

David exhales, and they greet each other with a kiss on the cheek. When he steps aside to let Patrick in, he gives a puzzled look to the bouquet in his hands. “Did you get me flowers?”

Patrick lifts them just slightly. “I thought you’d like them,” he admits and holds them out for David to take. 

White gerbera daises. They smell lovely. He sets them down as delicately as possible on the kitchen counter, afraid of causing the petals in their brown paper wrap. “Thank you.”

“I figured I might as well go the whole nine yards,” Patrick says, gesturing to himself, “hence the jacket.”

David runs a hand along the sleeve, a dark blue number that’s tailored nicely. Good material, too.

“I like this.” He sets his hands on Patrick’s upper arms. “You look good.”

“It’s not overkill?” 

“Not to me.” He squeezes through the fabric gently. “Let me just put these in some water and we’ll go?” David glances back over he shoulder to see Patrick watching him. “What?”

“You look—You’re beautiful, David.”

It makes him blush, the breath catching in his throat. Is it too early to declare that Patrick Brewer would be the end of him? David can’t do anything but cover his face.

“Your place is really nice,” Patrick says in attempt to level them both again. David runs the water, watching as Patrick brushes a hand over the quilted blanket that’s folded over the back of the couch.

“That’s Stevie’s,” he states, “If it weren’t for me, she’d live in a bomb shelter replica. Believe me, I saw the place she lived in before we moved in together.” 

Patrick chuckles. “I can definitely see your divide in, uh, aesthetics,” he nods to the two correlating abstract paintings hanging over the mantle. Thickly-layered strokes of acrylic in shades of blacks and greys with shocks of yellow.

“If it were up to her, this place would have  _ no  _ aesthetic.”

It’s as if, right on cue, the universe decides this is the best moment for some uncanny timing. The door opens to reveal Stevie, who stumbles at the threshold before a sly smile spreads across her lips. 

“Hi, Patrick.”

“Hi—“

David sets the vase down heavily on the kitchen table. “Hi, I thought—I thought you were working?” He shuts his eyes tight, a hand on his hip.

“Your dad offered to work for me tonight.” She looks between the two of them. “Am I interrupting something…?”

“Yes,” David snaps, “But we were just leaving.”

“I was just complimenting your place, Stevie,” Patrick says kindly, waving his hand at the living room. 

“Did he say my old place looked like a tornado passed through it?”

“David said it looked like a bomb shelter actually,” Patrick corrects inquisitively, and David can feel the irritation slowly begin to claw at his stomach. Of course these two would get along like a house on fire.

Stevie makes a clicking sound, “That’s not far off. Honestly, if you were to walk into my room right now, you’d be stepping over piles of dirty laundry.”

“Which is why I have to take a Xanax every time I go in there,” he grabs Patrick by the arm and pulls him to the door, “Also I wouldn’t call them ‘piles,’ they’re more ‘mountains’ at this point.”

“Mountains, piles,” Stevie makes a face and lifts her hands, “all the same.”

“Are they though, do you think?” David cocks his head to the side, and Stevie hums, walking over to the kitchen table. He points at her. “Don’t touch my flowers.”

“No promises,” she calls after them, her back turned, and David groans as the door shuts.

**

“Tell me about the gallery.”

They’re well into a bottle of local red and have several sharing-size plates between them when Patrick asks.

David isn’t exactly caught off-guard by the question, it’s just that he doesn’t know where to start. He spreads a bit of brie on a pice of toasted crostini meticulously, not looking up. “What do you want to know?” He adds a dollop of cranberry jam to the top.

Patrick swills his wine and shrugs, “Anything?”

“Well do you want to know about the art, or the kinds of pretentious people that would come in?” 

There’s a pause as Patrick squints at nothing, thinking. “What was it like owning a gallery in New York?”

David sighs. It’s still vague, but he can work with it. “It was thrilling,” he admits, “for a really long time, actually. But like all businesses, kinks come with the territory.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows. 

“Okay, wrong choice of words,” David circles his hands around, toast and all, “Moving on.” He leans back against the booth, wringing his hands. “There were a lot of late nights. The kind of crowd that was drawn in tended to really only show for the photo-op and free booze. I lost count of the amount of times I stumbled into the bathroom to see people doing lines on the counter.”

David pops the brie into his mouth before he continues any further. “Not that I wasn’t involved several times in the past. I was often between tipsy and drunk, if not a bit high. New York’s busy, but it’s not al that big. People tend to stay in the same groups and niches, and if someone with status was going to be at the gallery, you could bet I’d have people kissing my ass to get in.”

“So a lot of friends and familiar faces then?” Patrick sips his wine, eyes narrowed. 

“Yeah,” he pitches, folding up his napkin. “I can admit now that calling any of those people ‘friends’ is a bit far-fetched.”

There’s a look of sympathy that settles on Patrick’s face that David ignores in favor of picking sliced prosciutto off a brussel sprout. “As for the art, it was mostly contemporary. There were performance artists, too, and some of them were really fucking weird.” He laughs, “Like this one guy, Jacques. He did body painting, but the models were fully nude save for the mirrors they wore on their faces.” 

Patrick blinks. “I— _ what?”  _

David winces. Maybe that was too much. “They wouldn’t wear any underwear or spandex or anything like that,” he explains carefully, “The models couldn’t move for two or three hours at a time while he painted them, and then they stood on these pedestals around the gallery the whole night and wore mirrors on their faces. The guy claimed it was a way for the patrons to see themselves in his art.”

Patrick nods, bewildered. “Something about that seems really…narcissistic?”

“I would say ‘conceited,’ but yeah, that tracks.” David picks up his glass and tilts it, the wine slowly coating the inside. “He was always on something, but I’d argue most artists are.”

“I think that’s the only thing I truly retained from Art History 101 in my sophomore year,” Patrick muses, his head angled slightly. “Was that as weird as the shows got?”

“Definitely not, but it stands out the most.”

“How did Stevie come into play?”

“Ah,” David smirks, “By pestering me and bugging me the whole night. She had a joint and I was getting increasingly pissed at the photographer who was showing at the time and—“ David visibly shudders. “That’s not important. Long story short, it was opening night, Stevie was working at a swanky, tourist-filled hotel at the time, I needed a manager and she needed an out.” He spears the brussel sprout he was toying with his fork. “We, um, we actually hooked up that night. Kind of to spite someone, kind of because we were high.”

Patrick releases a slow,  _ “Oh,”  _ his hands folding over the table. “So…Stevie’s your ex?”

“Sort of?” David scrubs a hand over his mouth. “We hooked up for a few months before calling the whole thing off. We’re just friends now. That doesn’t…it doesn’t change anything, does it?”

“No!” Patrick answers, apparently louder than he was expecting to because he jumps. “I was just surprised to learn that was even a thing for you two, honestly. You’re just  _ really  _ similar.” 

“Mh, that’s not the first time I’ve been told that, won’t be the last.” David sets his chin in his hand and asks, “What about you? What is there to learn about Patrick Brewer?”

He watches as Patrick bows his head toward the table. “I’m not sure? I have a big family but no siblings, I played baseball as a kid and I play the guitar — but you already knew that.” 

“The guitar part, yes, but the baseball part I had only assumed.” 

“Uh, let’s see then…” Patrick presses his thumb into the base of his pinky, and David keeps his eyes trained there for a second or two before he begins to speak again. “Would it surprise you to know that I was a grade-A student?”

“Not at all. Straight A’s?”

“More or less,” he answers. “Okay, would it surprise you to know that when I was twelve, I broke my arm falling out of a tree?”

David shakes his head, “Nope.”

A smattering of pink begins to paint Patrick’s cheeks. Slower, now, he says, “Would it surprise you to know that you were the first guy I ever kissed?”

David remains still, mouth slightly ajar. 

“Or that kissing you, a guy, but specifically  _ you  _ for the first time made everything sort of…” He links his fingers together, “click?”

His heart might have just stopped. It didn’t, but it  _ definitely  _ skipped several beats. David’s lips slowly drag into a lopsided, toothy grin. “That’s quite the thing to say,” he manages in a strained voice. 

“Yeah…It’s a lot, but it’s the truth.” Patrick’s gaze his locked on David.

He finally swallows through the tightness in his throat, his eyebrows knitting together. He joins the game now. “Would it surprise you to know that you are possibly the nicest person I’ve ever kissed?”

“Can I say something else?” Patrick asks nervously, and David nods. “I’m pretty sure I wanted to kiss you the night we met in New York. And I know that I shouldn’t have, because I was with Rachel at the time, but I was probably questioning everything then. Even before then, really.” 

David moves to rest his hands over Patrick’s fidgeting ones. “You have nothing to feel bad about,” he assures, giving his hands a squeeze. “You figure it out as you go, okay?”

“Okay.” Patrick turns his hands so he can grasp David’s firmly. “Thank you, David.” 

They slip from David’s to drum against the table before Patrick slides into the booth beside him. There’s a distinct wafting of pine or cedar in Patrick’s cologne, something woodsy and spiced, as he leans in close. His gaze drops to David’s lips as they meet.

Normally, kissing in public like this would be against David’s own rules — sometimes PDA is a little too much, alright? — but this is Patrick and he’s enough of a reason to break them.

The kiss is gentle and not nearly as long as David would like. Patrick’s pulling back far too soon and David, not wanting to lose contact just yet, presses a kiss into his forehead — another kind of intimacy that he so rarely does, if ever. He noses Patrick’s hairline, breathing deeply.

Patrick makes no moves to return to his seat for the rest of dinner, and when he mentions skipping dessert to head out, David contemplates rioting.

Okay, he doesn’t riot, but he does begin listing the reasons why dessert is essential to a nice meal and they wind up splitting an espresso panna cotta. And maybe it’s the buzz of caffeine that hits him, but he’s itching to kiss Patrick again when they leave the restaurant. 

It takes everything in his power to not push Patrick against a brick wall on their way to his car. David restrains himself until they do, until he’s able to lean over the center console and pull him in. He can taste the faintest bit of cocoa powder that still dusts Patrick’s lips and he savors every last bit of it.

David doesn’t rush as he nuzzles into Patrick’s collar, pushing it aside with his thumb tucked underneath, dropping kiss after kiss along his flushed skin. He keeps it intimate, careful, unmoving. 

Patrick whispers his name and angles his head to kiss David again, his hands making their way into his hair and scratching up and down the nape of his neck until they break apart. And when they do, it’s with the most minuscule of spaces between them both, Patrick emitting breathy laughter while his thumbs stroke long against the angles of David’s jawline. 

Neither of them rush. They don’t have to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. You can find me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of Sebastien Raine.

“Looks like a rotten storm. Kids!” 

Alexis is lounging on her bed, ankles crossed as she flicks through a magazine. She glances over at David, and he rolls his eyes as their father walks into the room. 

“What’s up, Dad?” Alexis asks as she flips a page.

“I want you both to be careful if you go out on the road tonight,” he states, pointing at them both. He says it like they’re teenagers again, something his father didn’t really get to pester them about when they were younger.

“We’re adults; I think we can handle ourselves,” David replies with snark.

His father just shakes his head. “I know that, and I trust you both, but the weather report is calling for at least ten inches of snow this evening.” He slides his hands into his pockets before continuing. “I think it might be best for the two of you to stay here tonight.” 

“Ew.”

“Uh, no.” 

“Dad, we’ll be fine.” Alexis untangles herself from the covers to walk over and kiss his cheek. “We’re not kids anymore. I’m staying at Ted’s tonight.” 

Their father sighs. “And you, David?”

He scowls, “What?”

“What about you?” 

“Stevie’s working the desk tonight and staying here so she can help clear the snow in the morning.” He locks his phone. “I’m staying at Patrick’s because he has a fireplace and promised me hot cider. Plus, I’m not in the mood to deal with a space heater. God forbid the power goes out again.” 

Their building isn’t exactly old, but it’s not new either. The heating system hasn’t been properly upgraded in years, so it’s already iffy to begin with, and the power lines in the area are finicky enough that one gust of wind can take them down. When the power in their building went out last winter, David and Stevie had to huddle by a tiny portable heater until they sucked it up and stayed at the motel for three nights.

“Oh?” His father seemingly perks up at that, rocking back and forth on his heels. “And how is Patrick?” 

David pulls his lips into a thin line. “He’s wonderful. Why?”

“It’s just nice to see you so happy,” he replies in a chipper tone, “considering your, uh, track record with previous relationships—“

“Oh my god, Dad.” David presses his hands together in mock prayer. “Please stop.”

“What? I’m happy! It’s nice to see my son in such a healthy relationship.”

“There’s something about my father calling my relationship with my boyfriend ‘healthy’ that’s a little gross,” David deadpans. This is all starting to feel a little awkward.

Something about how his shoulders slump and the way the lines around his mouth deepen makes David realize just how much his father had aged. He and Alexis do joke that he’s old, lest they ever say the same about their mother. She’d still be shrieking well into the next week. 

But Johnny Rose, standing in the middle of a crummy motel room in a fleece vest and slacks, appears very mortal.

Rose Video could have been immortal, not just in the name, if the universe allowed them to play their cards to their benefit. Now Moira Rose, that woman would forever be immortal. There was just no way around it. She walked into the limelight and never quite let it leave her side.

Extravagance, thy name is Moira Rose.

But this version of his father, as a team member and business leader of the budding — pun intended — Rosebud Motel Group, is a little new. Arguably better. Rose Video started a few years before David was even a thought, so it’s not like he would know about the early business days that belonged to his father. He just knew that he was successful and remains very good at what he does. 

They all were, in their own ways. And now when he thinks about it, David’s beginning to see how they’re all successful in new, more wholesome ways. 

_ How sappy.  _

David makes a guttural noise low in his throat. “Would it make you feel any better if we both texted you to let you know that we arrived in separate parts of this  _ very  _ small town safely?”

His father lights up again. “It would, actually.” 

“What time is the storm supposed to start, anyway?” Alexis asks, twisting at the ends of her hair. 

“Eight,” their father says, “but it could start at any minute. The weather can be temperamental.” 

David exchanges a weird look with Alexis, who crosses her arms with and turns to walk into their parents’ room. 

“I’m gonna make some tea before Ted gets here,” she calls to them, “Do either of you want a cup?”

“Just for me, please, Alexis,” their father calls back, “thank you.” 

His father stares at him for a few beats too long before David snaps. “What?”

“I meant what I said. I’m happy that you’re happy.” 

David lets his expression relax. “You don’t bother Alexis about her relationship with Ted.”

“That’s because your sister is forthright about it,” his father explains, “You tend to be a little more defensive. And I don’t know why; Patrick’s a very kind young man. Your mother and I like him quite a bit, and I know you do, too.” 

“Yeah,” David breathes, allowing a faint smile to cross his lips, “I really do.” 

His father hesitates for a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Do you see a future with him?”

David’s throat goes dry. “I...I don’t know how to answer something like that when you’ve literally just sprung it on me.” He shakes his hands out anxiously. 

“David, I’m asking you because I care.” His father is earnest. “Do you?”

He closes his eyes, “I haven’t really let myself think about it. I’m just trying not to screw things up with someone that I really, really care about.”

That appears to be a good enough answer for his father, because he beams at his son and changes the subject. “It looks like the motel’s headed in a good direction,” he observes, looking around the room. “We might be able to start actively working toward expanding come the new year.” 

“I didn’t think it would be so soon,” David replies, admittedly shocked.

“We still have a few more renovations. Ronnie’s coming by sometime next week to check the tiling in the bathrooms; a few of them desperately need upgrading.”

David hums, the image of cracking tiles forming in his mind. “Can we afford good materials?”

“We can afford something sturdy.”

David screws up his face. “Sturdy?” He repeats.

“Yes,” his father replies, “that way, the stuff lasts. According to Stevie, Maureen only replaced a few showerheads and tore up the carpet in room nine in all the time that she owned the place.”

David swears under his breath, taking a look at the wall-to-wall carpet below him. It’s certainly tracked with stains and deeply-embedded cigarette ash. He’ll be adding that to the list; a good, heavy-duty carpet steamer wouldn’t do even a remote amount of justice. Better to rip the Band-Aid off, he’d start looking soon.

“This is really heading in the right direction,” his father’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “At this rate, if it all goes well, maybe you’ll head back to bigger and better things. New York, perhaps?”

He’s right. His long-term plan was to return to Manhattan once Stevie was secure with the business, and now that his father is so involved, David feels comfortable knowing that she had the help she needed.

“And who knows,” he continues, “maybe Patrick will go with you.”

_ Oh _ . Well, that’s a thought. 

“We’ve been together five months.” David stands, adjusting the hem of his sweater so it’s no longer bunched-up. “It’s too early to think about this stuff.”

“You’re probably right. We have some time, anyway.”

David squints at his father like he’s digging for something. He wants to question him, see what else he’s thinking, but Alexis struts back into the room with two mugs.

She hands one off to their father. “Ted will be here in twenty. Do you have everything?”

David gestures to his bag by the door, packed and ready. 

Ted arrives, Alexis making a beeline for shotgun and nearly knocking David onto the ground in the process. The clouds above are swollen with the impending snowfall, all grey and white with only the pale setting sun breaking through weakly. 

“Do you think Dad is okay?” Alexis turns in her seat to look at David.

“What’s wrong with your dad?” Ted asks worriedly. “Is he sick?”

“He just seemed kind of mopey,” she says, setting a reassuring hand on Ted’s arm. She makes a face at David, “Right?”

“Is he a dog, or something?” He shrugs, “He seemed fine to me.”

“ I think he misses us?” Alexis scrunches up her nose, her fists balled up inside her sweater. Honestly, it’s hitting negative temperatures. One thick sweater and no coat won’t cut it, even if she is only making the short trek to and from the car.

“Like...Okay.” She shifts herself completely so she’s nearly sitting backwards. Ted looks over at her warily then meets David’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “I know we basically live on top of each other. I mean, yeah, you and Stevie have a place, but you’re at the motel a lot so my point still stands. Anyway, I think that, even if we all live so close together without the means of escaping--”

David snorts.

“Dad likes having us around.” Alexis’ tone grows softer as she says, “He and Mom can’t jet around like they used to. I think he’s making up for lost time when we were younger.”

“He was probably just hoping we’d all get snowed in together and play charades like some psychotic normal family,” David rolls his eyes. “Sorry, Ted.”

“Don’t be! My family plays charades every holiday,” Ted chirps. “It gets a little weird, sometimes.”

“Ugh, David! That’s not my point!” She swats at him. “I’m being serious! Dad clearly likes being able to work with you because it probably feels like some father-son bonding thing. And he’s been helping me with my classes. Mom will never admit it, but she does like having us around.” She finishes by folding her hands in her lap. 

The car grows silent, Ted driving along at a safe speed. 

David tilts his head to the side and takes a good look at his sister. “You grew up a lot.”

Her brows knit together. “What?”

“You’re not this flighty person anymore,” David says admirably. “You wouldn’t have said something like that or even cared if you were the same person you were three years ago.” 

Alexis tries her best to hide her smile as she turns to face forward again. “I can’t really be ‘flighty’ anymore,” she looks at Ted, a hand reaching over for his, “not that I’d want to be.” 

It certainly feels like a private moment that David’s impeding upon as Ted kisses the back of Alexis’ hand. 

Patrick’s building is already swathed in the white-yellow hue of the street lamps as Ted parks by the door, the sky having dimmed blue just slightly.

“Tell Patrick we say hi!” Alexis calls after him. Ted waves through the window. 

He’s fishing the key that Patrick gave him months ago out of his pocket when he reaches the third floor landing. It’s clear he doesn’t need it, though, because the door is wide open when he turns the corner and Patrick is there waiting for him. 

He had no way of knowing David was walking up; the parking lot isn’t visible from Patrick’s apartment, and he didn’t text him, either.

“How--?”

“I just had a feeling,” Patrick explains simply.

David brushes off whatever  _ that _ is and kisses him hello. 

“Please tell me you have piles of warm blankets and--” He gasps, cutting himself off. “You already have the fire going. You’re my hero!” 

David abandons his bag to fall onto the couch, the heat of the fire already easing the chill in his bones. Patrick passes him a steaming mug, the scent of apples and cloves wafting as he dips his nose toward it. 

“Mh...I needed this tonight.” He eases back into the couch cushions. “Are you cooking something?” 

Aside from the crock of cider sitting on the counter, there’s a distinct smell of rosemary carrying through the small apartment. 

“I’m making dinner,” Patrick says against his temple, “Chicken and asparagus.”

“Should we be drinking something classier than cider?”

“Don’t worry, I spiked it,” Patrick says with a wink.

He did indeed; the smoothness of bourbon hits his tongue. David lets out an involuntary sound of pleasure as he sips it, and while he should be embarrassed by it, Patrick’s heard and seen enough weird things from him that he just looks at him adoringly.

David quirks his lips off to the side. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Patrick gives a slow blink, his eyes growing wide and innocent. “Like what?” 

“You’re giving me puppy eyes.” He nudges Patrick’s shoulder.

“I can’t help it, David,” another kiss to his temple, “you’re adorable.” 

His head falls back with a whine, “Which we say about puppies, not an adult human. You can’t just say something like that without warning.” 

Patrick laughs, “Why not?”

“Because you’re…” David throws his hands up. “I don’t know!”

“So I can’t call you adorable,” Patrick lists, counting on his fingers, “Can I call you beautiful? I mean, I already do. What about gorgeous? Or is that going to make you fall over?”

David narrows his eyes playfully. “Fine. Just...no pet names, or we’ll start sounding like Ted and Alexis.”

“Whatever you say, honey.” 

David gives him a look just as the timer on the oven goes off. “Really?” He watches as Patrick retreats into the kitchen, pulling two trays out of the oven and setting them on the stove to cool.

“David, it’s kind of impossible for me  _ not  _ to use some kind of endearment on you.” He takes two plates from the cupboard. “It took you two months to officially call me your boyfriend without scaring yourself.” Two sets of utensils are pulled out of a drawer, followed by a spatula. “Not to mention, you seemed to love what I was calling you in bed the other night.” He shoots David a wink over his shoulder.

He blushes at the memory. Patrick had pinned him down under the covers just as David was dozing off, his lips pressed into the stubble on his neck as he whispered “baby” over and over again, continuing as he went lower and lower, his hands brushing the hair just above his waistband. David came completely undone under Patrick’s touch. He always does.

Patrick returns to a blushing David with two plates and a kiss to his cheek. 

“Oh, so here’s some exciting news.” David maneuvers himself until he’s sitting against the arm of the couch, legs bent in front of him. “My dad was telling me that expansions for the motel are practically in sight.” He spears a piece of chicken with his fork, holding it up to his mouth. “There are still some final things to get done, but this time next year, who knows where we’ll be.” 

Patrick actually looks impressed. Not that he wouldn’t be. He'd actually taken a bit of interest in the motel, but not to the degree that his dad had. 

“That’s great, David! All that hard work is really paying off.”

“I mean, it’s mostly my dad and Stevie.” He uses his fork to elongate his gesturing. “By the time this all finishes up, I’ll be on to something else.” 

“They won’t need you?” Patrick’s brow furrows.

“They’ll be hiring staff with each new location. I was always only temporary. Stevie knew that from the get-go.”

Patrick’s still eyeing him curiously. “Yeah, but what are you going to do after that? You’re just going to leave the motel?”

“Motels aren’t exactly luxurious,” David explains, “They don’t need me to make each room into some five-star hotel suite replica. That would be entirely out of budget, and I can already hear my dad’s voice in my head just thinking about it.”

“So...no ideas then?” 

David chews thoughtfully, taking his time to dig for an answer. Ultimately, he’s unable to come up with something other than the plan he already had.

“Returning to New York was kind of always an end game.” He averts his gaze from Patrick to the roaring fire. “Maybe find a position at a private gallery, as a curator or director or something.”

Patrick appears thrown off by David saying that. He looks like he’s concentrating on a spot on the rug, his eyes cast downward.

“But I don’t know if I’m actually going to do that,” David rushes to add. He sets a hand on Patrick’s shin in an attempt to comfort. “I have time to figure that out. It’s still all hypothetical. I’m not focusing too much on that right now.” 

He smiles at Patrick warmly, earnestly, and it’s enough to get Patrick to smile back. Whether it actually melts away the uncertainty that was clearly sitting in his eyes or he’s just faking it for David’s sake, Patrick relaxes enough to squeeze his hand.

“So speaking of the motel, I do have some bad news,” Patrick announces, and David freezes, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Well ‘bad’ isn’t really the correct word,” he adds quickly. “Let’s say it’ll prompt an eye-roll.”

“You’re dying.”

“No.”

_ “I’m  _ dying?”

Patrick laughs, “No one is dying. I promised your dad we’d help shovel the parking lot tomorrow morning.”

He does in fact roll his eyes.  _ “Why _ would you cut my beauty sleep short?” David asks, sounding exasperated.

“You work there anyway, David. It’s not like your dad and Stevie can do it on their own.”

“Bob will be out plowing all morning.”

“Yes, the whole town,” Patrick clarifies. “We can’t just wait and expect him to do it.”

“I mean, we could,” David shoots back, but Patrick’s right. Alexis’ words about their dad missing them ring in his ears. There’s the familial guilt he was waiting for. 

“We’re not going before nine.”

“Understood.”

“It’ll be cold in the morning, and I’m wholly expecting you to keep me warm.”

“I can think of a few ways,” Patrick says and digs his teeth into his bottom lip.

David’s eyes widen, his mouth twisting into a weird, pursed smile. 

“Honey,” Patrick adds, and David nearly tosses his plate across the room to free up his hands and plant one on him.

**

The pinkish scar is still distinct on David’s right pinky, even after several months of using the fading balm. It’s not that he’s exactly given up on it, it’s just that at this point, David’s applying it routinely just as he does his various facial products or brushing his teeth. 

He almost wishes that he took a before photo so he had something to compare it to.

David bites back the minor frustration as he glares at the faint line, capping the almost-empty tin and sliding it into his toiletry case. If he was petty enough, he would call Brenda up and claim the product was ineffective. But he’s not a total dick, and he likes and appreciates her partnership with the motel, so David will never do that. 

He presses a few drops of a hydrating serum to his cheeks and forehead and lets it sink in. David opens the medicine cabinet to move on to the moisturizer and is still pleasantly surprised to see that next to his own jar is Patrick’s. It’s the one David had recommended to him a long time ago during drinks at the Wobbly Elm; apparently Patrick has been using it ever since. 

He closes the cabinet again and sees Patrick leaning against the doorframe in the reflection.

“Uh-oh.” He raises a shoulder. “Am I taking too long?”

Patrick shakes his head slowly, lifting his shoulders. “No, take your time. I like watching you.” 

“Good thing we’re dating, otherwise that would be creepy,” he replies, massaging the cream into his cheeks in an upward motion. He screws the cap on tight and trades the jar for an under-eye cream.

Patrick steps forward then, taking it from David’s hands. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I’ve watched you do this enough; can’t be that hard.” 

He dabs the tiniest amount on his ring finger and blots it, light as a feather, on the delicate skin of his orbital bone like David had painstakingly demonstrated when he first started to spend the night. Patrick moves to the other eye, gliding a thumb gently along to spread the product in with all the precision of a professional esthetician.

“All done.” 

David’s eyes flutter open and he gathers everything up in his arms. “Bathroom’s all yours.” 

Patrick slips past him toward the shower with a hand grazing his lower back. “Care to join me?”

“I would if I hadn’t just done my entire routine. Next time.” 

David shuts the door as he leaves, the water running on the other side. He smiles privately; this all feels very domestic, not that David is opposed to it. He loves staying at Patrick’s, loves getting to wake up next to him in the mornings pressed against his shoulder.

Patrick is the first person other than his family and Stevie who he’s allowed to see him as a sleep-rumpled mess first thing in the morning, his hair mussed-up and eyes heavy. He’s entirely unapologetic about it. 

While he seems to love seeing David like that, it goes both ways. Patrick’s hair is always sticking up in the back, his words are normally slurred when he first speaks, and he always has faint markings of the pillow case creased into his cheeks.

Some mornings, they’ll wake up a tangled mess of limbs and bed sheets -- depending on the prior evening, with or without clothing -- hands on chests or bellies as they press into each other with very little space between. Regardless of the morning, Patrick is always up first and returns to bed with coffee for David, made to perfection, and tea for himself.

He’s not a morning person by any regard, but when it comes to sharing them with Patrick, he has a much easier time waking up.

David is digging through his bag when he comes across the book; its red cover is crinkled and the pages themselves look a bit tattered. He’s kept it in the very bottom of his bag since Alexis dropped it in front of him. 

**_Real Stories of Soulmates and The Red String Theory by Dr. Solomon Grey_ **

David wants to vomit. He’d prefer to do so rather than admit that curiosity occasionally gets the best of him and he finds himself reading bits and pieces of the book.

He chances a look at the bathroom door. There’s still some time before Patrick finishes his shower, so he settles on the bed and opens up to where he left off.

**_Prudence Holoway and Matteo Lazo_ **

_ The couple first met in 1994 in Saskatchewan. A minor car accident between Holoway’s brother and Lazo at an intersection caused a tiff, resulting in the woman, eighteen at the time, to run down to the scene. Lazo’s car was totaled. His right hand was broken and being tended to by a medic while Holoway’s brother stomped and kicked at the curb in frustration. _

_ He had been the one not paying attention at the stop sign and collided with Lazo’s sedan. _

_ Holoway retrieved her brother’s things from the passenger’s side, the seat covered in shattered glass, before checking on Lazo, a young man of maybe twenty or twenty-one; Lazo claimed that the woman before him had the kindest eyes, a sea of deep blue he would never forget. _

David skips ahead, growing severely bored. The story goes on to tell the reader that Prudence ran into Matteo eight weeks later, just days after his cast came off, and both discovered a reddish ring on their pinkies. They each blew it off as something from the scene of the accident, but there was something about the itching and irritation at the site that colored them each curious. 

It’s the part about them not seeing each other again for two years that catches him off guard. 

_ Holoway and Lazo both reported a sense of ‘innocuous time travel’ upon touching one another; they were no longer in the library where they were standing. It was as if they were thrust back to the day they met at that intersection. They each felt, heard, and smelled everything from the moment they met. They both felt the occasional itch or pain at the site of their scars -- The Red String, some call it -- in the time leading up to meeting again. However, the couple said that they felt an almost phantom-like tugging in the library that day.  _

David almost tosses the book across the room as he finishes that paragraph, his hands shaking. There’s just no way…

He catches a line at the very bottom, underlined in red pen by Alexis.

It reads:  _ Soulmates always find each other. No matter how hard they try to hide, no matter how smart they think they are, they always run into each other again and again until the time is right.  _

“What’s that?” 

David startles. He didn’t hear the shower turn off. “Just some light reading.” He folds the book shut and drops it into his bag on the floor.

Patrick’s standing at the foot of the bed, his hair damp and his cheeks flushed and warm from the shower. He crawls in beside David, pushing him down gently to kiss him. David’s hand finds the back of his neck and keeps him there a little longer.

Until his phone dings on the nightstand. 

“Who is it?” Patrick cranes his neck to try and get a look.

“Stevie,” David says upon reading the notification. “Oh...she sent a picture?”

He unlocks his phone and laughs at the image. It’s the two of them in the mirror of the gallery bathroom, dazed and glassy-eyed. Stevie has her phone held up, a big, closed-lipped smile on her face making her look a little clownish. Her head is tilted back so he can see more of the inside of her nostrils than her actual nose. David’s leaning into her, one brow raised at a sharp angle as he tries to look as nonchalant and ‘chill’ as he possibly can. 

**_Stevie_ **

**_[8:45 P.M.]_ **

**_just an fyi i’ve been dealing with u for 4 yrs now. i deserve a raise._ **

He shows it to Patrick, who smiles. 

“Four years ago today, apparently.” He sets his phone aside. “Fun night.”

“Looks it,” Patrick leans back against the pillows, “You were stoned.” 

“We definitely were. That’s not a secret to anyone at this point.” He bobs his head to the side. “Maybe my parents, but...whatever.” 

Anxiety swirls low in his stomach as the events of the week leading up to that opening -- the first of Rose Galerie -- trickle back into his mind. The months leading up to opening were filled with the normal amounts of stress and anxiety, but  _ who  _ was involved made things so much worse.

“So I’m going to tell you about something. Someone.” David swallows hard. “But I can’t look at you while I tell you.”

He sees Patrick turn to him in his periphery and clarifies, “I feel like if I do, I’ll break. So, um…” 

“Come here.” Patrick pulls David into his chest and wraps his arms tight around his shoulders, securing him there. 

It takes a second or two for David to start speaking, to find his voice. When he feels safe enough, when the nausea hasn’t come, he inhales sharply.

“I told you that I hired Stevie pretty much the second I met her. I told you about how we hooked up, and how I might have done it to kind of get back at someone.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything, and David is grateful for that.

“The first exhibit at the gallery was a series by a photographer named Sebastien Raine. Yes, he’s as pretentious as his name and yes, he was an ex of mine. He sucked.” David allows himself to wheeze some sort of laugh at the bluntness of the statement. 

“He wasn’t supposed to be the one showing,” he continues, clutching the fabric of Patrick’s tee. He can hear his heartbeat where his ear is pressed up against his sternum, its steady rhythm calming him. “A Japanese artist was set to -- this girl who did epic pieces with old comic strips -- but I wound up pushing her off until the following month because Sebastien had these photos. Blackmail.”

He clears his throat, willing tears away, and Patrick holds him tighter against his chest. “He took some photos,” David explains as simply as possible, “nudes, without my permission, while we were seeing each other. We were super fucked up and I was an idiot looking for a good time and took half a pill without question. 

“He...I promise you he didn’t do anything but take photos.” David pauses. “I actually can’t promise you that, because I don’t know. I was in and out of consciousness for the next several hours. I was getting tested regularly anyway at the time, and nothing came up differently the next time I did. So...Anyway,” he nuzzles further into Patrick’s chest, “he shows up two weeks before opening and tosses a flash drive onto my desk, tells me to take a look, and then these black and white photos of me in his bed start popping up on my screen.” 

They flood back in hazy memory: silken sheets, faded grey in the photo filter, draped scantily, precisely. David’s body stretched out on the mattress, Sebastien’s hands over him. His apartment-slash-studio bare and dull and reeking of cologne and sweat. The amber glass of whiskey on the bedside table, the click of the shutter speed.

“He said that I either had to make him the opening night exhibitor or he would release them elsewhere, likely rendering my career over. There were a lot where you could see my face, and I wasn’t risking that. I needed to have  _ some  _ control of the situation.”

David laughs wetly, bringing a hand up to blot at a stray tear. “I convinced him to only show the ones where my face was cut off, and insisted that he use other photos -- which he did. Luckily. But yeah...He was there that night -- of course he was, it was his work -- and Stevie stumbled in off the street. She had the unfortunate pleasure of getting stuck in a conversation with him, and I saved her from that headache. 

“He came back around every so often, and I always kicked him out. Apparently, he was more than satisfied with the commission he made selling some of his shitty work that night along with the slight increase in popularity, because he never released them and he never tried to show at the gallery again. I was lucky, it was easier than it could have been, and that’s really it.”

Patrick is completely still underneath David, and for a second he’s afraid he’s fallen asleep. But when he looks up, Patrick’s eyes are filled with something like anger until he meets David’s. It’s then that they soften. 

“David…” His voice is thick, and David really doesn’t think he could deal with that right now. “Thank you for trusting me with that. It's...it’s heavy.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it? David  _ does  _ trust Patrick. He trusts him with the roughest parts of his past and trusts him more than most people. For the first time David has somebody that he can trust with his delicate heart. It’s pretty big.

David hums, and Patrick continues, “If he ever comes near you again, he won’t know what hit him.”

“You’re right up there with Alexis and Stevie in wanting to clock him in the jaw.”

“I’m not a violent person,” Patrick says, and David knows that, “but I wouldn’t think twice if he tried to lay a hand on you.”

“He wouldn’t. But thanks.” He breathes in heavily, and outward just as hard. “I’m going to change the subject now, because that got very...A lot, it was a lot.”

“Okay.”

David reaches for Patrick’s right hand, playing with his fingers until he sees it; faint but still somehow pink and prominent against his pale skin is a mark across his pinky. “How did you get this?”

Patrick lifts his hand to examine it, wiggling his finger. “I’m not too sure,” he ponders quietly. He noses at David’s hair, lips buried. “But I noticed it for the first time when I got back from my trip to New York with Rachel. I had a jacket with a finicky zipper on it, so I’m thinking it was that.” He brings his finger closer, “But it wraps all the way around, so I really don’t know how I did it.” He gives it a flex and adds, “It still bugs me sometimes. It itches like it’s healing, and I don’t know why.”

_ I think I know,  _ a small, repressed part of David wants to say, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to shed any light. Besides, it’s ridiculous. 

He just nods against his chest, ignoring the tingling in his own pinky to gingerly touch Patrick’s. He’s actively trying to push away everything he’s read, everything Alexis has told him, because  _ they are not a thing.  _ They can’t be. 

“Weird.” 

“What about yours?” 

David stills. “W-what?” He stammers.

Patrick eases David’s right hand from where it’s tucked underneath him. He tries his best to slow his heart rate as Patrick’s thumb grazes over the slightly raised loop. 

“You have one, too.” Patrick kisses it and  _ oh... _ Okay, that’s a thing. He kind of likes it. “How’d you get this?”

“Cut myself a while back,” is David’s explanation, “On glass, I think? I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I was drunk.” 

A hum rattles somewhere in Patrick’s chest as he eases his hand down again. “Funny. It’s like we match.”

David lets his lips drag outward, his gaze trained somewhere on a spot on the window. “Funny.” He tries to make himself sound chipper as opposed to strained. 

Patrick’s fingers drag up and down David’s arm for so long that he’s half asleep when he hears his name whispered.

He grumbles questioningly, eyes still closed.

“Hey. Can I tell you something?”

David blinks away, angling his chin up to look Patrick in the eye. “Sure.” 

He seems nervous, and the fact that he’s not looking David in the eye right away confirms it.

“My parents don’t know.” 

David turns to face him fully, sitting upright. It takes a moment for him to understand what Patrick was getting at, and when he does, he brings a hand to his cheek. 

“They don’t know we’re together. They don’t know why I really broke off my engagement, why I moved…” He lets out a choked breath. “They don’t know that I’m gay.” 

Really, David can’t help but smile sweetly at this man that lays with him. This...emotion, whatever it is that he has for Patrick hits him like a wave. It’s immense, it’s pride.

“When I ended things with Rachel, I figured I needed a clean break,” Patrick continues. “I figured the more distance I put between us, the less likely we were to fall back into it. I told my parents that I needed to get out for a while. I was home for a few weeks before I decided to leave. We went to school together, we grew up in that town so she was bound to know where to find me.”

“I left. I saw Ray’s ad, drove straight here, and barely gave my parents an explanation.”

David scratches through the short hair at the base of Patrick’s neck. He leans into the touch, eyes closing for but a second.

“I’m sorry I haven’t,” Patrick whispers, voice breaking, as his hand comes up to wrap around David’s wrist, his thumb swiping gentle pressures into his bare arm. “But I will, I just...I can’t yet.”

“Don’t do it just because of me,” David insists, “Do it when you’re ready.” A beat, then: “I’m proud of you already.” 

He seems to relax at that, the glassiness in Patrick’s eyes fading away easy. He runs a hand through David’s hair and sighs. “Heavy night.”

“Heavy night,” David agrees. 

**

“Are you going to help me or just stand there?”

“It’s cold!”

“I know it’s cold,” Patrick says, waving the ice scraper he’s holding, “I’m standing out here.” 

David crosses his arms over his chest. Three layers, a toque and a parka aren’t enough to keep him from turning into a human icicle. 

“David, come on,” he pleads, “we live in Canada. You should be used to this weather by now. You’re thirty--”

David shoots him a look and Patrick backs down.

“The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can help your dad.”

“Okay, or,” he points to Patrick, “we could forget about the whole thing, go inside, and warm up.”

“David.” Patrick’s shoulders slump.

“Why can’t I just stand here and admire how cute my boyfriend looks all bundled up, wearing his little wool cap?”

“David—“

“Is your car even going to work in this much snow?” He’s pushing these buttons on purpose now. “What if it just, like, dies again like it did in the summer?”

“David.” Patrick sounds exasperated. “My car will be fine. If not, we’ll just walk.” 

David’s jaw drops. “Okay, um...We won’t be doing that.”

“Please just help me out here. It’ll take five minutes.”

“I’ll freeze my balls off!” 

“We wouldn’t want that to happen.” Patrick walks up and tugs David from his spot in the doorway, much to his protesting. 

“Five minutes,” Patrick insists. It takes nearly ten.

Hours later, while they’re shoveling at the motel, David has nearly slipped twice, actually fallen once, and has taken Stevie down with him. They both land hard on the walkway, groaning as the wind is knocked out of them. 

Patrick laughs and helps them to their feet, and Johnny looks briefly panicked before seeing that they could both walk okay. 

At the commotion, his mother pokes her head out the door wearing a mink cap, an oversized coat, and Rhoda, her long brunette wig, as a scarf. 

“John! It’s an arctic tundra out there! You must be mindful of where you step!”

“Moira, I’m fine, it’s just a little snow.” He walks over to his wife to calm her.

“Yes, but I heard a racket. I thought you were injured!”

“The kids fell,” he explains, hitching a thumb over to where David and Stevie are now standing, leaning on each other for support, “everyone’s fine.” 

Stevie gives her a pained wave. “Hi, Mrs. Rose.”

She looks less than convinced, but points a finger at him. “If you catch your death…”

“I’ll sleep in another room, sweetheart, I know.” 

David watches as his mother gives a quick glance at everyone outside and slams the door again, snow falling from the gutter above the room.

There’s an outcry and some shrill laughter from Alexis. “Ted! That’s fucking cold!” 

Ted’s laughing beside her, remnants of a fistful of snow covering her hat. Alexis bends down and balls up snow in her gloved hands as Ted shuffles away, careful not to fall. She manages to strike him right in the back.

David’s too busy laughing to notice Patrick follow her lead until there’s snow dripping beneath his scarf. 

_ “Fuck,  _ Patrick!” He yelps. 

Stevie’s cackling, tossing snow at David who throws some right back, and it becomes a full-blown snowball fight. Even his father joins in before he’s dragged inside by his mother.

David’s running as best he can through the snow -- trudging, really -- when he feels a pair of arms slink around him. He manages two more steps before he’s stumbling forward into a mound of soft powder.

Patrick rolls off of him, heaving and laughing as he brushes the snow from David’s face. 

“Your nose is red,” Patrick murmurs. 

David smiles, “So is yours.”

Patrick leans in, eyes cast down at his lips. At the last second, David shoves packed snow right in his face, making him sputter. They lose themselves in a fit of carefree laughter, David leaving Patrick in the dust as he heads back to the rest of the group.

When Patrick catches him, it’s with two cold-lipped kisses against his cheek, making David shiver. Someone mentions hot chocolate, and he tugs Patrick inside his parents’ room with everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! You can find me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Number, kids, numbers.

As it turns out, Stevie blowing her nose sounds a lot like a fourth grader playing the trumpet for the first time: awful, deafening, obnoxious, and makes David want to vomit.

“Don’t you dare come near me!” He jumps back a good three feet when Stevie sits up from the couch.

She glares at him with puffy, lidded eyes. “I’m just trying to throw my tissues out.”

“You have the flu, just—“ He picks up the stainless steel trash can with gloved-hands and sets it closer to her. “There.” 

“I’m fine, David.”

“You’re really not,” he argues, and toes the trash closer to her. It makes a horrid screech against the floor. “You’re sallow, you have the darkest circles under your eyes--”

“--Thanks--”

“--you had a low-grade fever at the clinic,  _ and  _ the nurse said you had the flu, so,” he throws his hands up, “you are  _ not  _ fine. I’m staying somewhere else until you’re better.”

“You’re going to leave me here by myself?” Stevie slumps back against the pillows. “What if I need something?”

“Call Jake.” 

She snorts. Or, she tries to, anyway. “Jake isn’t my boyfriend, David. He’s just a guy I hook up with when I’m bored.”

“That is incredibly fucking sad.” 

“Not like you haven’t been there.” She plucks a tissue from its box and blows hard, and David waves his hands around in disgust. “Why are you wearing those?” She asks, nodding to the rubber gloves on his hands.

“Because this apartment is infested with germs and I’m trying to protect myself.” 

Stevie blinks at him sleepily. “Whatever,” she grumbles, and blows her nose again. 

David grimaces. She really needs to stop. Or he needs to leave. “I’ll drop stuff off for you if you really need it, but unless you’re actually dying of a fever I’m not setting foot in this apartment for at least two days.” 

“I’m assuming you’ll be bleaching every surface and opening all the windows when you move back in?”

He rolls his eyes. “Obviously,” he says, pulling on his coat. “There’s orange juice in the fridge and there’s still that zinc and echinacea tea in the closet from last year.” He opens the pantry and sighs at its nearly-barren shelves. “Okay…we have two cans of chicken soup, a box of rice, and some cereal.”

He closes the doors and turns back to the couch, Stevie nearly invisible under the mound of blankets.

“Honestly, how do we even survive on our own?” She asks from beneath several layers.

“I have a boyfriend who thankfully knows how to cook,” he explains, “I don’t know what you do.”

“I can cook,” Stevie insists, her voice raspy. 

“Barely. Last time you and I attempted to follow a recipe, you managed to burn the steak.”

“Who even likes their steak well done?”

David pinches the bridge of his nose, “There’s a difference between ‘well done’ and ‘charcoal,’ and you clearly missed the mark by at least ten miles.” 

“David.” A stuffy sigh. “This is our apartment, not a Michelin Star restaurant in France.” 

“Whatever.” He kicks the side of the couch to grab her attention. “Drink a lot of water, keep me updated, and take your medicine.” 

“Yes, Mom.” 

“And you’re not allowed to have any alcohol while you’re on antibiotics, so I’ll be drinking it all for you.” He shoves the bottle of whiskey that sits atop the fridge in his bag for good measure.

“You really suck,” she coughs,  _ “This  _ really sucks.” 

“It does,” David says with minimal sympathy and a sarcastic smile. “I’m leaving. Let me know if you’re actually dying.”

Stevie doesn’t even take a jab at a witty rejoinder; she just groans miserably, and he’s dialing Patrick before he even reaches the stairwell. 

He picks up on the third ring. “Hey.”

“Stevie has the flu.” 

“Ah…And I’m great, thanks for asking!”

“Patrick!” He whines, “I can’t stay at my place! I don’t want to get sick!”

“You can stay with me, but I have to leave at seven for Thornbridge.” 

David stops on the first landing. “What? Why?“

“There’s a business seminar I have to attend for Ray. David, I told you about this last week. I’ll be out of town for two days.” 

Who the hell goes to a business seminar in fucking Thornbridge? Psychopaths and his boyfriend who’s abandoning him, apparently.

“Why can’t Ray go?”

“He’s booked solid this weekend,” Patrick explains, and there’s some shuffling on his end. “Some house showings and a photoshoot for the high school soccer team. Why don’t you come over for a little tonight anyway?”

“You’re lucky, I was already on my way.”

He unlocks Stevie’s car and tosses his bag into the seat next to him. 

“Good.” He can hear the smile in Patrick’s voice. “Go make yourself at home, I’ll be there soon.” 

Patrick’s apartment is exponentially warmer than it is outside. It’s been a snowy winter, and today’s icy rain isn’t helping. The wind is so harsh it stings against David’s cheeks. Thank god for weather-appropriate moisturizers.

The shower is all too inviting; the water pressure at his apartment is satisfactory at best, but it does take forever to actually get hot. David practically savors using the shower at Patrick’s every chance he gets. 

He steps into the hot spray and immediately his muscles relax, the tense feeling in his shoulders dissipating with every droplet. David’s mind wanders through the last few weeks; the holidays had been wonderful. His parents hosted a Christmas party, which was much less extravagant than old times but held much more charm -- and a lot of cookies baked by Jocelyn that David immediately hoarded.

And while he made Patrick promise not to get him anything, he still went ahead and gifted David a beautiful silver bracelet that he now wears daily.

New Year’s had been an ordeal itself. It consisted of several bottles of champagne in Alexis’ room at the motel, and a very heated makeout session in the bathroom with Patrick to ring in the new year. Midnight struck along with Stevie’s foot kicking the door, giving David a heart attack and a half. 

David hadn’t realized how comfortable he was until very recently. Alexis off-handedly pointed out how much he had been smiling, and she’s completely right. He hasn’t smiled this much in his life. 

Patrick’s made him so happy in such a short amount of time, and their relationship felt very lived-in. In the grand scheme of things, at least in things involving the love life of David Rose, this was a feat. Openly caring for somebody so deeply is not hardwired into his brain, and it never has been. The Roses aren’t exactly affectionate — okay, maybe Alexis is in her own way with her nose boops and random endearments, but  _ still  _ — considering how often they were off doing their own things.

It’s not like he ever did this in his other relationships. David’s partners were usually aloof, hardened and almost always looking for something, sex or otherwise -- often materialistic. For a really long time, he was, too, but the fast-paced dating scene lost its luster quickly enough to show that there was a whole lot missing. 

For one, someone that was genuine. Additionally, the people David dated weren’t ever necessarily kind or even honest. It gave way to a whole lot of longing and no true action.

But Patrick met all of those descriptors and so much more. 

He really loves--

Nope.  _ No. _ He’s _ not _ doing that right now.

David shakes the thought that’s been germinating for months from his head. He composes himself, wraps a towel around his waist, and leaves the steam-filled bathroom to retrieve his clothes, only to find Patrick rinsing out his thermos in the kitchen.

He abandons his task the second the door opens, metal clattering against metal as he eyes David. “Wow…This is quite a thing to come home to.”

David’s cheeks flush. “I left my clothes in my bag,” he manages to get out, “I just—“

Patrick steps closer, his hands sliding from his waist around to the small of his back. “But I like you like this,” he whispers seductively. 

“Patrick,” he pleads, “I’m starting to freeze.” 

He plants two slow kisses along David’s neck and collarbone before finally letting him go with a pat to his bare chest. He ducks back into the bathroom and pulls on a t-shirt and the joggers he packed. David opts for one of Patrick’s hoodies as opposed to the shirt he’d brought with him. He’s immediately surrounded by the smell of detergent and cologne and  _ Patrick.  _

“Okay now you’re just torturing me.” He teases David from his new spot at his desk when he comes back out of the bathroom, a book open in front of him. “You look very cute.”

“Aw, thank you.” David nuzzles into his neck from behind. “Can we order in before I inevitably have to subject myself to sharing a room with my sister tonight?”

Patrick angles his head back. “I told you, you can stay here tonight  _ and  _ while I’m away.” 

“You have to  _ leave  _ at seven, which means you’ll have to get up even earlier than that,” David gives him a pained look, “It’ll be weird staying here alone anyway.” 

“Why?”

He shrugs, breath held. “I feel like I’ll be intruding,” he finally gets out.

“Okay, but you wouldn’t be,” Patrick insists, and David frowns. “You’re not going to let me convince you, huh?”

“Nope.” He presses his lips gently against Patrick’s jawline. 

Then he spots a dark wood frame on the desk alongside another that houses a photo of the two of them during Christmas. It stands out for several reasons: 

One, it’s obviously new; it definitely wasn’t there yesterday. Two, it’s a photo of Patrick with his parents smiling, his face a little rounder, as they stand outside of what is presumably his childhood home, a plaque hanging beside the front door that reads  _ 509 Hemlock Way.  _ He smiles at the strange familiarity of it all, some kind of recognition. 

And three, Patrick’s  _ hair.  _

“Oh my  _ god!”  _ He plucks the frame from its spot, his jaw dropping. “How old were you?”

“Nineteen,” Patrick blushes, grabbing for the frame, but David’s pulling it far out of his reach. “I was leaving for college that day.”

He runs his fingers along the glass. “You should grow your hair out again,” he chimes, “You look good.”

“Maybe,” Patrick replies. “Can I have that back now?”

“No, I’m not done looking at it!” He turns it to Patrick, still holding it far enough away that he can’t snatch it. “Look at those curls!”

“David.” Patrick lolls his head to the side, nearly groaning. “I lived with those curls. It was a hassle.” 

He gives Patrick a pout. “I’m going to convince you,” he declares, “even if it’s the last thing I do.” David hands it back to him. “Where did this even come from?” 

“My mom sent it, along with a few belated Christmas gifts,” Patrick explains, setting the frame back where it was. “She was going through a bunch of boxes and came across a few photo albums.” 

“Wait, I’m sorry,” David waves a hand in front of himself and takes a seat on the desk. “You’re telling me that there are even more photos of you with a mop of curls and you’re  _ keeping  _ them from me?” 

Patrick laughs breathily. “My mother is very sentimental, I can guarantee she has more.” 

It’s nice to get a peek into Patrick’s childhood, even if it’s so minimal. “And your dad?”

“What about him?”

“Is he as sentimental?”

“Eh, with some things,” he shrugs, “Trophies, both mine and his. Dad has a whole box of my grandmother’s recipes stashed away somewhere, too. He’s been talking about binding them together or something for years now so they’re not just a bunch of loose pages and index cards.” 

David smiles at the domesticity of it all. It’s so unlike anything he grew up knowing. 

“That’s sweet,” he beams, glancing down at the book in front of Patrick. “What are you reading?”

“Oh, um…You left it here, actually.” He flips it closed and—

_ Okay, fuck. It’s Solomon Grey’s book. Fuck. Fucking Alexis, fuck.  _

“I—Alexis gave that to me,” David stumbles over his words, taking it from Patrick with a shaky hand. He suddenly feels very hollow. “She, uh…She was going through a conspiracy theory phase a while ago? She bought this stupid thing online and—“ He chokes out a rough laugh, “You know what? I’ll just take that off your hands.” 

He’s rambling. David is rambling and shaking and he needs to come up with a change of subject quickly.

_ Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck— _

“I mean, it’s kind of interesting,” Patrick admits. He picks up a pen and twirls it between his fingers. “I read through most of it, especially the parts Alexis must have circled.” He looks a bit sheepish, twisting back and forth in the desk chair.

David screws up his face, his hands gripping the book tightly. “Yeah, but…This stuff isn’t real,” he starts in a pitched voice, “You don’t actually believe this stuff.” 

Patrick doesn’t answer. He’s not meeting David’s gaze as he clicks his tongue and tilts his head to one side.

Okay, cool. David’s tasting metal which is very much totally normal. It’s fine. He can work with this, it’s  _ fine. _

“You do know this is just one of those stupid myths right? Like folklore or an old wives’ tale or something.” David taps nervously at the silver ring that sits on his pinky. “Right?”

And when Patrick still doesn’t say anything, David’s stomach drops. 

Patrick begins flexing his right pinky a few times, bringing his left hand up to pinch the skin. “I don’t know, David…” He says it softly, his voice wavering and uncertain. “It’s not…improbable.” 

He nods in a slow, almost circular motion, his eyes growing wide. “So you do. Believe it, I mean.”

“It adds up.” Patrick looks at David, finally. “It makes  _ some  _ sense.” 

David starts waving his hands then. “Can we just—Let’s stop talking about this? I feel like I’m going to pass out. It’s all very—“ He cuts himself off. Very what? Scary? Real? Cataclysmic? 

“Okay, David.” Patrick sounds defeated, deflated. It hurts.

David wrings his hands together. “Are we fighting?” He dreads the answer.

“I don’t think so.” Patrick shakes his head and plasters a tiny smile on his lips, one of cooperation more than anything else. “I get it; it’s a weird subject. Do you still want to order in?” He pulls out his phone, and despite the pang of guilt, David’s happy for the change in topic.

Forty minutes later, they’re sitting on the couch with a pizza box opened on the table in front of them. There’s a good foot and a half between them both, but it feels like miles. A movie plays on Patrick’s laptop and neither of them are paying any attention.

A pricking of anxiety sits low in David’s stomach as he thinks of all the other ways he could have fucked up this very healthy relationship before now. Patrick hasn’t looked at him once or even made a move to touch him. He’s only spoken to him twice, to see if David wanted something to drink or another piece.

David can't really take it any longer. The ringing in his ears is louder than whatever’s playing on the screen. “I’m gonna head out.” 

He sets his plate aside, grabs Patrick’s and does the same, piling it up with crumpled paper napkins. Patrick remains stoic and unmoving as David carries their dirty dishes to the kitchen, and he’s sitting to lace up his shoes when Patrick finally says his name.

It’s like it’s caught in his throat, a choking of  _ “David,”  _ begging, nearly. 

It’s but a string of silence - one second, two - before they’re meeting halfway, lips crashing together. There’s no fervor to it, not at first, but it’s sound. It deepens, Patrick running his tongue along David’s bottom lip and moving backwards toward the bed.

David is briefly reminded of how quickly bickering with former partners often turned into heated sex, but he doesn’t want to do that with someone he cares about.

Patrick falls back against the mattress, and David takes advantage of the position to remove his shirt, trailing kisses down his neck and chest, low against his waistband and pressing his lips against his inner thigh. Hands and lips and shallow breaths, the curling of fingers. It’s as far as Patrick allows either of them to get because he’s coaxing David to lay beside him. 

They face each other for a long while before anything is said. 

“I’m sorry,“ David whispers, tears evident in his voice. 

Patrick glides his fingers over the ridge of David’s cheekbone. “Don’t be.  _ Please.”  _ He swallows hard before continuing. “You’re probably right about it all, anyway.” 

And, well, David doesn’t like hearing that all that much either. He kisses Patrick again, all too chaste this time, and pulling away, he sees how doe-like his boyfriend’s eyes have gotten.

Patrick stops himself a few times, opening and closing his mouth as he tries to find the proper words to say in the moment besides his own apology. But if he says it, then it’ll just wind up being an awful back-and-forth, and David’s not quite sure he can handle that. 

“I want to say something else,” he finally gets out, his eyes locked solidly on David’s, “but I’m not going to. Not right now.”

There’s an earnestness in Patrick’s brown eyes, an underscoring seriousness that David connects. He has one fist tucked between his head and the pillow, his other sliding from his cheek to his bicep. David searches Patrick for a moment, poking about. It clicks, and--

_ Oh. That. _

“If I did, it just wouldn’t feel — it wouldn’t be right.” Patrick huffs through his nose, his eyes leaving David’s to flit to the ceiling. “Everything about it, about being with you, feels right,” he explains, emphasizing his point, “but saying it now, David…”

He doesn’t finish his thought, clearly overcome, and David has to admit he’s a little divided on how he feels about that. He’s two parts relieved, one part melancholic realizing what Patrick was going to say. 

And that last part of himself is in pure disbelief, completely doubtful because after years of shrinking himself, of feeling too big for certain spaces he  _ fits. _ Maybe, finally, David slots perfectly with someone so good. Someone,  _ Patrick,  _ who sees all his sharp angles and frayed edges and still cares. Someone who... _ yeah. _

So if this is what allowing himself to be cared for feels like then, well, David really likes it.

“Will you let me know when you get to Thornbridge tomorrow?” 

Patrick nods against the pillow, “Are you even going to be awake?”

There’s the teasing. “I’ll see the text when I wake up.”

“I’ll call you when I get out tomorrow.” 

Patrick kisses him gently in the doorway as he leaves, David breathes in deeply. “We’re okay?”

A nod, “We’re okay.” 

David tries his hardest to ignore the stinging that courses through his right finger as he drives.

**

He’s admittedly miserable in the motel bed. He’s not entirely unused to it, considering he has stayed here on multiple occasions, but the mattress is lumpy and the size is essentially that of a double-wide coffin. Granted, the sheets are his own, purchased to replace the scratchy cigarette-smelling set the motel provides. 

He wonders if he would be as miserable in this bed if Patrick was there with him, but he’s not. They shared it on New Year’s Eve anyway, passed out on top of one another, personal space thrown out the window. 

But here he is. Alone in bed, sharing a room with his sister after causing some kind of rift in his relationship. 

It wasn’t a fight, but they weren’t  _ not  _ fighting. It might be that there just isn’t a word for it. 

“You look cozy!” 

Of  _ course  _ Alexis is in her chipper mood. David wants to scream.

She slides into her bed with silky pajamas and too big a smile. “That’s a new piece,” she notes, gesturing to David, nose slightly scrunched. 

He looks down, having completely forgotten that he was wearing the hoodie. “It’s Patrick’s,” he answers shortly. 

Alexis pouts at him. “How sweet! Taking your boyfriend’s clothes!” Her expression softens just slightly, making David wary. “You’re so in love with him.” 

And  _ how _ can she say that so nonchalantly? How is it that his sister, once so naive but always able to hold her own, is able to poke and prod and always is so right about this stuff? It’s not like her past flings were much healthier than David’s own. Arguably, they might have been, but they were messy on a whole different spectrum. Continents, even.

“--David?”

He blinks. “What?”

“You zoned out.” She sits tall against the headboard, and  _ god  _ he hates how easy it is for her to figure out that something’s wrong with him. “I was asking you something. You’re all grumpy-looking, did you guys have a fight?”

“No, we didn’t  _ fight.” _ His reply is so sharp that he makes himself wince. Alexis, however, remains idle. David takes a deep breath, shaking his head like he’s trying to get the words out. “Patrick found that book on soulmates you gave me. Apparently, I left it at his place, and he read it.”

Alexis doesn’t seem to falter and once again, David wants to scream. “Okay, why is that bad?”

“Because it sounds like he believes it!” David presses his face into his hands. “Soulmates aren’t a thing, Alexis, and you keep throwing this--” He flails his hands about, a full-body bounce. “--bullshit research at me and claiming it’s real!” 

“I’m just trying to help you, David!” She practically growls. “I don’t see how Patrick believing in soulmates is a bad thing. He’s clearly yours.”

David’s rendered speechless for a moment. He wants to cry, he feels like he’s shaking. He’s suddenly cracked open and raw to the world -- his sister, really but it’s all the same -- and everyone’s able to see inside of him. 

“He can’t be,” he finally whispers as a tear runs down his cheek. He swipes it away. “Soulmates aren’t a thing and they never will be. People don’t stay, Alexis. Not for me.” 

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” she retorts. It’s not vitriol, but there are tense notes that hit David in the heart. “If you think I’m trying to ruin this for you, you’re fucking wrong. Why would I want to sabotage my brother’s relationship when all I want for him is to be happy?” 

David stares at her, at a loss for words.

Alexis narrows her eyes, “I don’t care how many fights we get in, because at the end of the day I just want to see you with someone that loves you. You deserve to be happy, but why you’re so adamant on not believing that is beyond me. Idiot.” 

She flicks off the bedside lamp and lays down with her back facing David, leaving him alone in the dark. The minutes tick by one by one with Alexis’ speech on repeat in his head. The tense feeling in the room never quite wavers. 

When he finally settles back against the pillows, the smell of Patrick’s hoodie simultaneously easing him and keeping him very alert to the voice in his head, he calls out to Alexis. “Is Ted your soulmate?”

He doesn’t expect Alexis to respond, so it surprises him when she does.

“No,” she whispers, and okay...David wasn’t exactly expecting that. “But I don’t care. He’s good to me. He’s the one, even if we don’t share that bond. Soulmates are rare, but I’m really happy with Ted.” 

She does sound really happy. All those years of running around the world following shitty guys and escaping movie-like scenarios, and Alexis lands here. A sleepy little town with a weird name and a very, very good guy. Whatever she does next will make David proud, he already knows that. 

He supposes that this is how Alexis must feel seeing him with Patrick. Maybe she’s actually right. 

Deep, deep down in a twisted and mostly impossible way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! We're getting close to a wrap-up here, folks, just a few more chapters. Thanks for coming along on this ride! 
> 
> You can find me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


	8. Chapter 8

The Rose family is notorious for ignoring their feelings. Or — they’re just notoriously bad at processing them.

Johnny Rose laughs it off, mostly, and plays a round or two of golf. But out of the four of them, he’s most likely to make a point to actually talk things out. He’s just a little more…businesslike, not to mention a little more awkward.

Moira Rose, an actress through and through with a flair for dramatics, paints a grandiose picture with her words; she says something serendipitous and usually misses the point more often than not. She’s the one to yell nonsensical things or recite a Shakespearean soliloquy unprompted.

Alexis Rose plasters a smile on her face and struts through her problems like she owns them. Which — she  _ does.  _ However, she hides and rarely lets anyone see her fully break. She normally runs it all off, or if it’s really bad, she just goes completely quiet. 

David Rose might be the worst of them all. He dodges questions and hides from the inevitable for as long as he possibly can. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine until it’s not; he’ll hold it all in until he explodes (much like his mother, but minus the monologuing). Occasionally, he will run away or lock himself in a room somewhere.

It turns out that Patrick is quite similar; neither of them have talked about the book since it happened. He’s a workaholic through and through; David knows that from the nights when he’s had to force Patrick to shut his computer and come to bed. He buries himself in his work when he’s stressed.

After returning from Thornbridge, Patrick had showed up on his doorstep with a shy smile and open arms that David threw himself into. His embrace eases everything, his words like balm to the soul.

Minus quick and necessary-feeling apologies, it was all talk of the motel as expansion loomed closer. He and Stevie dove headfirst into the final renovations, and his father began to reach out to old colleagues who might be interested in investing. 

Carpets are ripped up, tiles are replaced, and there’s a new washer and dryer setup in the laundry room. Above the motel sign is a shiny new one that reads  _ Rosebud  _ in matching red letters on the face of the building.

It’s on the first Saturday of March that Johnny rushes into the café with a smile on his face, a little out of breath, as David and Stevie are having lunch.

“Are you okay, Mr. Rose?” Stevie looks at him, perplexed, as he takes a seat beside David.

“Yes, yes! Good news, team! Very good news!” He clasps his hands on the table. 

David waves a hand, “Are you gonna tell us, or are we supposed to guess?” He asks impatiently, trading a look with Stevie. 

“I spoke to an old friend from the early years of Rose Video who put me in touch with an investor.” He stops, looking between them both before saying, “We have a conference call this Wednesday!” 

Stevie’s jaw drops, her hands flying to cover her mouth as David starts yelling a string of  _ “Ohmygod, ohmygod!”  _ Their commotion is enough to bring attention to their table as the entire café quiets down. 

His father puts a hand up, clearing his throat. “Sorry, sorry,” he chuckles, catching Twyla’s eye as she comes over with a coffee pot, “exciting business news.”

She beams. “Congratulations, Mr. Rose! Should I bring over some champagne?”

“No, that won’t be necessary, Twyla, thank you,” he declines and sips his coffee, his attention turning back to the two of them.

“What did he say?” Stevie asks excitedly as she leans over the table. “What do we need?”

“Just our pitch and our goals. Which we have, and they’re _good._ ” His father slaps his hand against the table and turns to face David. “If this all goes to plan — which it _will —_ we can buy up that motel in Elm Valley and maybe the other in Thornbridge. Who knows what else is out there for this little team! I’m very proud of us!” 

**

David’s shaking his head disbelievingly and smiling to the point where his cheeks hurt. A few years ago, he was rolling his eyes at the amount of pretentious gallerists that he met, Stevie at his side. His best friend looks absolutely awestruck at how everything’s paid off today. 

It’s a refreshing paradigm shift. 

He always did know that Stevie was destined for bigger and better things, it just turned out that his definition of “bigger and better” didn’t suit her — a fast-paced city with powerful people and even more powerful names that she could dominate. This, however, does; a small town and a great idea, proving that she can kick ass. 

And she is truly a beast in the boardroom, albeit a nervous one, despite the fact that the “boardroom” was actually just the back office in the motel and a video call. 

Stevie strutted right into their kitchen that morning with her chin held high, exuding confidence in a pewter business suit and just the slightest bit of makeup. David was floored, to say the least. He’d argue that he’d been floored by his best friend in the past, but this was Stevie Budd on a whole other level. 

He made her do two full spins just so he could get a better look at her, which she not-so-secretly loved. 

His father took the lead once the meeting started, going over the logistics and numbers and business things that David only had the slightest grasp of. Stevie pitched their plans for the expansion, what they wanted to do with the new motels and why it would work. David spoke less about aesthetics and more about the comfort a motel could bring. 

In the end, they were told that they would hear back from them with an offer soon. Johnny stood up, clapped his hands together, and announced they’d be going to dinner to celebrate that night — his treat.

“Should we really be celebrating this soon?” David asks, worrying his rings. He’s since loosened his tie, leaning back against the desk. “Wouldn’t we be jumping the gun or tempting fate?” 

His father comes over and places his hands on both his and Stevie’s shoulders. “We’re celebrating regardless of the outcome,” he states, “because I’m proud of you both and all the hard work you’ve put into this place over the last few years. You deserve it.” 

Stevie smiles sheepishly. “You helped a lot, too, Mr. Rose,” she nods, “if this place fell into my hands without knowing you or knowing David, I would have sold immediately.” She turns to David and adds, “Seriously. There would have been a lot of panicking.” 

Johnny smiles at her. “I’ll go make us a reservation for this evening.” And with that, he steps out of the room.

David gives Stevie a knowing squint, shaking his shoulders a little. “You’re kind of a badass, you know.” 

She shakes her hair from her face, still harboring the lingering confidence from earlier. “I am. That felt good, Like, that all felt  _ really  _ good. I think this is gonna work, David.” 

He knocks her shoulder, “It definitely will.” 

“So what’s next for David Rose?” Stevie folds her arms over her chest. “Are you still going to leave when we’re all set?”

He brushes her off. “You don’t need me. You’re in better hands with my dad than me. I have big dreams,” he concludes, only half-joking, “I just have to execute them.” 

Stevie eyes him, her mouth slightly ajar. She might look curious, but there’s a layer of pride in her eyes. She’s seen David at his lowest, but she knows what he’s capable of.

“What about Patrick?”

“What about him?” He asks, chin lifted.

“Does he have any opinions on this?”

“He’s been very supportive,” David replies happily, “he even dropped off coffee this morning to wish me luck.” 

Stevie snorts, “That’s both disgusting and adorable.”

“How is that disgusting?”

“You’re just so domestic,” she concludes, and yeah, David can agree with that.

“We’re all set for six!” His father walks back in with a skip in his step. “Dress nice; suits aren’t necessary.” 

David gives Stevie a look of  _ “Thank god,” _ and pulls off his tie fully with one fell swoop.

**

“Hey! How did it go?” 

David walks along the path to the park, his phone pressed to his ear. He’s changed out of his suit and into more comfortable attire for the rest of the day.

“Flawlessly,” he replies, and he can hear Patrick smiling on the other end as he speaks.

“I told you it would! You guys were very prepared, I wouldn’t lie about that.” 

David huffs out a laugh, kicking a pebble to the side. “Dad’s taking us to dinner tonight to celebrate.”

“Are you coming over after?’

He shrugs even though Patrick can’t see him. “If that’s alright by you…” 

“David, I don’t know why you even have to ask at this point,” he says, and something tugs low in David’s stomach. “You’re always welcome here.”

Patrick had assured David of that. He spends more nights there than he does at his own place nowadays, and it’s even more rare that Patrick stays at David’s. Why would they when Patrick’s apartment is so private? He has some clothing there, some toiletries, and even his favorite coffee. 

“Okay. Then I will see you tonight,” David promises, his pinky flicking outward. 

“Wait, wait, wait, don’t hang up yet!” 

David comes up to the gate as Patrick says it. His pinky gives way to an itch as he sees his boyfriend hovering fifteen feet away. David wordlessly hangs up the phone.

“I didn’t tell you I was coming here,” he calls out to him, an accompanying skeptical look.

“I know you didn’t.” Patrick walks over, a small white pastry box in one hand. He cocks his head to one side, “I just had a—“

“A feeling,” David finishes, scrunching up his nose. He shakes his head, his eyes closed. “You and your feelings,” he mumbles as he snakes his arms around Patrick’s waist. 

He pecks him quick. “How are  _ you _ feeling about it all?”

“Good,” David replies honestly with an exhale, “Really good. A little nervous.”

“That’s normal,” Patrick assures. “But you said it yourself; it went flawlessly.” 

“Right, but I could spiral at, like, any second.” He bounces as he says it, then gestures to the box. “What’s this?”

“Just a little something.” Patrick pulls the tape off the box, ripping some of the white off with it, and reveals a single cupcake inside. “Lemon olive oil cake with vanilla buttercream.”

David’s favorite from a bakery just a few miles out of town. He laughs brightly, “Did you seriously get me a fucking cupcake?”

Patrick shuts the box and takes a step back. “I can keep it for myself if you don’t want it,” he says, “I haven’t had lunch yet.”

David shakes his head and moves closer. “You got it for me, therefore it’s mine.” He smirks a bit. “I’ll give you one bite.”

Patrick hums, peeling back the paper liner and biting into it. Buttercream speckles his nose and lips. “’S good,” he mumbles, his mouth full.

“You’re ridiculous.” David wipes the icing off his nose and kisses him soundly, the taste of lemon and sugar making it sweeter. 

He plucks the cupcake from Patrick’s hand and makes a contented noise through a bite. “Oh, that’s  _ good.”  _

**

With a bottle of wine set in its holder at the center of the table, all three of their glasses filled, Johnny regales David and Stevie with a story about the early years of Rose Video, both its trials and its tribulations. David is warm and happy from the wine, and beside him Stevie is drinking in every word his father says.

“…It’s why we did those cards every year, son. When you own a business, you need to not only really connect with the clientele, but the employees, too.”

David groans, “We’re not doing holiday cards for the motel.” He turns to Stevie. “They were horrifying.” 

She hums, “Mr. Rose, do you still have any left? I’d love to see them— _ Ow!”  _

“David be nice,” his father scolds with a look, one David is not unused to when he messes with Alexis. “I don’t think I have any of them saved, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately,” David mocks quietly.

Stevie gives Johnny a half-hearted shrug. “Eh, I’ll just settle for baby pictures.” 

David picks up his glass and leans back in his seat. “You absolutely will not be seeing any baby pictures.” 

“What if I need them for your birthday?”

“I’d rather be trampled by cows,” he winces.

Stevie gets that glint in her eye. “I can arrange that.” 

His father laughs at them jovially. “You two really are to sides of a  _ very  _ similar coin.” He swills his wine around the glass. “Not quite polar opposites, but you’re just similar enough to balance each other out.” 

David makes a face. “Okay?”

“I’m glad David’s found a friend like you, Stevie,” he continues, “And I’m very proud to consider you part of our family.”

Stevie blinks quickly, her eyes glassy. “You—Thank you, Mr. Rose.” She swipes at her nose with her sleeve, and David decides not to give her any shit for it. “I appreciate that.” 

David smiles at his best friend, his chest swelling with pride for her. He digs around for something to contribute, but his thoughts are promptly cut short by a phone ringing.

“Oh!” His father pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket. His eyes squint to read the screen and then widen. “It’s Mike Morrison,” he announces with a little gasp. 

“Answer it!” David hisses, “Answer it!”

“I am, I am!” He stands up excitedly from the table and heads towards the front of the restaurant. “Mike? Hey, it’s good to hear from you…”

David releases a shaky breath, twisting in his seat until he can’t see his father anymore. “Do you think that’s it?”

Stevie’s hands fly upward. “It’s gotta be! What else would he be calling your dad about?”

His brow furrows. “Golf?”

They both sit there in silence as they wait, David fiddling with his rings in his lap while Stevie chews at her bottom lip. His heart begins to pound in his chest, a solid  _ thud  _ that he can feel all the way up in his throat. 

David wants to cross his fingers, ask for some hope from some questionable power or even just the light fixture hanging above them. He can hear Stevie’s foot tapping against the wood floor beneath the table, her entire body bouncing from the rapidity. David wants to hit her arm, tell her to stop moving around so much but he’s not doing much better. She stops, only for a second to down her wine and pour another glass.

He’s seconds away from standing up and actually pacing around the table when his father reappears, the pair shooting to sit upright.

He brings his arms out, palms facing upward as he nods. “They’re in.”

Stevie launches herself from her seat to throw her arms around him in a hug, laughing and crying before she turns and does the same to David, who’s still sitting. His own eyes are wide and his mouth is open in a huge grin.

“Y-you’re kidding?”

“Not even a little!” His father sits back down and raises his glass in cheers, all of them meeting in the middle. 

The glasses clink and sparkle under the lights and David shakes his hands out. “What did he say?”

“They’re all in,” Johnny repeats, “and we can go ahead and put an offer on those two motels. With the number they’re proposing, it’ll be enough to support all of us, the whole family. We can’t afford what we used to, and if I’m being completely honest with you both, I don’t think I’d want to. But it’s going to be enough for your mother and I to find a house nearby, free up some space at the motel.”

Stevie grips David’s forearm. “Oh my  _ god,”  _ she whispers, still in disbelief. 

“Now, there’s one more thing.” Johnny puts his hands out in front of him, his tone growing a little more serious as he leans into the table. “I didn’t want to bring this up too soon, but I got a call about it yesterday and now seems like as good a time as any to tell you.” 

He directs his attention to David. “Son, I’ve been speaking with someone in New York…”

“O-okay,” he stammers, brows knitting together. 

“There’s an opening at The Whitney. It’s not a private gallery like you’re used to, but you already know that. I sent them some articles and write-ups from your time with Rose Galerie, they’ve seen what you’re capable of.” His lips turn upward ever so slightly. “David, there’s a job waiting for you there. A director’s position. It’s all yours, so you can finally get back to what you were doing.” 

And, well, David’s completely speechless for a moment. He huffs, his mouth turning upward. “R-really?” He finally gets out.

“It’s what you wanted to do after all,” his father answers, “and when opportunity knocks…” He tips his glass a little.

Stevie smacks his shoulder. “David.” She’s smiling, too, but there’s something else there that he can’t quite pinpoint.

He brings his hands up to cheeks. “I need to tell Patrick,” he whispers, a shocking bit of laughter escaping him. “This is... _ Ha!” _

“Go, go!” His father waves a hand in at him in a shooing motion. “I’ve got the car, I’ll drive Stevie home.”

David grins at them both in thanks and rushes out of the restaurant. 

The entire drive back to Schitt’s Creek has him vibrating with excitement. 

The deal went through, their hard work paid off, and now he’s heading back to New York. An opportunity of a lifetime; he wouldn’t be picking up where he left off, per se, but he’d be back where it counts. 

There’s a low tug of anxiety in his chest as David thinks of Patrick’s reaction, but the excitement overrides the feeling. 

He practically knocks Patrick’s door off its hinges upon entering, launching himself at his boyfriend with a solid kiss, his arms around his neck.

“They’re in,” David breathes heavily, and Patrick’s eyes are wide and searching. “They’re completely  _ fucking  _ in!” 

“David!” Patrick pulls him back into a tight hug, swinging them around in a wobbly circle. They’re laughing and holding each other, and all David wants to do is cry from how happy he is.

“There’s more,” he says, swallowing. He starts to worry his pinky ring, Patrick’s hands gripping his forearms. “There’s a place for me in New York.” 

Patrick’s face falters. “W-what? With the motels?”

David shakes his head, “No, as an art director at The Whitney.”

“I-I don’t…” Patrick shakes his head as his hold loosens. “You’d be leaving?”

“I’d be back doing what I love,” David explains, still smiling. “I’d be looking at art every single day, working with  _ artists _ .” 

Patrick blinks, his hands finally falling to his sides. He walks towards his desk, one hand covering his mouth as if he’s contemplating something. 

Everything feels too quiet. “What’s wrong?”

Patrick sighs heavily, wetly, his hands slapping the sides of his legs. “So you’re getting out of here then.” He spins back around.

“I wasn’t going to be at the motel forever,” David tries to explain. Icy tendrils of anxiety claw somewhere in his sternum, and he does his very best to keep his face neutral. “You knew that.”

“Yeah, but you’re leaving,” Patrick repeats with his hands set on his hips.  _ “Really  _ leaving.” 

“Patrick, there’s nothing else here for me.” David regrets it the instant he says it. 

He watches as Patrick blinks, his eyebrows shooting upward in some kind of shock. “Wow…Am I not enough?” He rasps, so clearly hurt. 

“That’s not what I meant.” David takes a tentative step forward, but stops when Patrick puts his hand up. “Career-wise. I meant that there’s nothing else for me career-wise.” 

“There could be,” Patrick says, his voice small. “I know you don’t think you fit in here, David, and you probably do fit in more in New York, but you were miserable there.” 

“Not all the time,” he argues pathetically, “I was doing things that excited me.” 

Patrick repeats himself, “You were _ miserable.”  _

“I had something there that people cared about!” 

“Did they really?” Patrick shoots back. “Or did they just use you over and over again like they did in all of those stories you’ve told me?”

“Yes!” David nearly shouts. He’s trying to convince himself of two different things here. “There are still people there—“

“People,” he echoes bitterly. “There are people here, too, David. People who actually care about you and about your family and what you all do next.” He steels himself, prodding his own chest. “Especially me.” 

“My family will be out of here before you know it,” David tries to reason, his voice tight, but Patrick shakes his head.

“Really? You actually think that? Your dad is pretty invested in the motel, you and I both know that. I don’t think he’s going too far. And your mom? She might be too big for this town, but she doesn’t completely hate it, and she sure as hell won’t go anywhere without your dad. I didn’t grow up with them, David, but in the time I’ve known them I’ve picked up on that much. They’re a team. And what about Alexis?”

“She’ll be off galavanting again in no time.” David digs his nails into his forearms through his sleeves, a nauseous lump forming at the base of his throat. 

Patrick’s shoulders fall. “She won’t,” he states. “She has Ted. She’s happy with him, and she’s happy here. Alexis has changed, David.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” He looks, pleading and insistent, at him.

“Yes!” David exclaims. 

His hands are shaking now. He feels hollow, the hot tears stinging the back of his eyes. He really doesn’t like this, the feeling of being out of control, like he’s able to feel everything good falling away piece by piece. If there’s a rope for David to grasp, it’s already slipped through his fingers.

David can feel himself losing all of what he’s had with Patrick.  _ It was always inevitable,  _ he thinks. He would be the reason the other shoe drops. 

“What about me, David?” Patrick asks, much quieter now. “Was I just a waste of time?”

David’s heart completely shatters. “God, no! Patrick, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

“Then why don’t you stay?”

“I can’t give up an opportunity like that,” he says and there it is. The final nail in the coffin. “Patrick…”

“Well I can’t just move to New York with you!” Patrick throws his hands up, his voice thick and wavering, but unthreatening. “I’m happy here, I have a life here, a job. I already left home without giving my parents a reason. I’m not moving to another country!” He pauses. “David, I would do  _ anything  _ for you, but I can’t do this.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” his voice catches on the last word and breaks. “I wasn’t…” 

“I don’t want to be without you.” A tear rolls down Patrick’s cheek as he steps closer to where David stands at the back of the couch, Patrick’s gaze locked on him. “David, I love you.” 

“Please don’t say that,” he begs weakly and it just— it  _ aches. _ It hurts so much in a way that he can’t quite describe.

Patrick’s shoulders slump, his arms falling to his sides once again. “I am, David. I’m completely, head over heels in love with you. Nothing can change that, but if you’re so adamant on leaving, then what’s the point?” He scrubs at his face, his hand running over his eyes to his mouth, and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. “Do you remember this?” 

He holds up a worn matte-black business card. It’s the one from Rose Galerie, the one Stevie gave Patrick in the bar years ago.

David is awestruck. “Y-you kept it?”

“It went in my wallet and never came out,” Patrick explains. “I didn’t know if I’d ever be back there, but I kept it like I was holding out hope I’d see you again.” He grips the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table, his knuckles white. “I felt drawn to that bar that night, as stupid as that sounds. I’m the one who suggested to my friends we go  _ there  _ as opposed to anyone else because something about it...just felt important.” Patrick shakes his hands a bit, and at David’s dumbfounded look he asks, “What, you’ve never felt drawn to a place before?”

“I-I don’t…” David holds his breath, thinking about how the sign to the bar looked under the amber lights hanging over it. How he’d never noticed it before despite being in that neighborhood so frequently. “I’m not sure,” he admits, and Patrick’s shoulders drop.

“I never said this out loud and it never made sense until I read that goddamn book, but I thought about you constantly. I dreamt about you; I saw you -- your  _ smile --  _ almost every night up until the moment we met in the motel last year. After that, everything began to fit into place.” 

David swallows hard, choking back tears with his head tilted toward the ceiling. 

“I believe everything in that book,” Patrick concludes after what feels like years. “Everything Alexis researched, all the information she gave you. I believe it.”

He shifts awkwardly. “No. No, that’s just—“ 

“What?” Patrick’s voice is strong, but the way he holds himself says otherwise. “Everything adds up.” 

When David doesn’t say anything else, Patrick keeps going. “Do you think this is all a coincidence? What about this?” He raises his right hand, his pinky extended. “Huh? What about—“ Patrick strides forward, taking David’s hand and gently eases his ring off to reveal the scar beneath. “This? Are you still thinking this is all a coincidence?” 

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes,” he breathes. It’s faint, and he’s trying to convince himself all while hoping Patrick doesn’t hear him. “They could be from anything.” 

“Really?” The way Patrick asks makes him sound pained. His eyes are sad, begging even. “We always know where to find each other. I know you’re here even when you don’t announce yourself; the door’s open before you hit my floor.” 

“It’s a small town,” David argues. 

“That doesn’t explain me knowing when you’re in my  _ building.”  _

He shakes his head, and Patrick continues. “Every single time you’re nearby, every time you’re about to show up, this starts to itch.” Patrick scratches at his finger for emphasis. “You’re telling me yours doesn’t?”

David brings his arms to fold at his chest again, averting his gaze as he tries to make himself smaller. 

“You can say all of this is a coincidence, fine. But I believe it all.” He’s stern now, more than he has been since David’s stepped foot in the apartment. “David Rose, you are my soulmate and every bit of evidence amounts to it.”

His ears are ringing, a high-pitched and shrill sound that’s entirely deafening. David feels wobbly, and would very much like for the floor to swallow him up. 

“Fine, you know what?” Patrick dips his head down with a broken laugh. He sets the ring down on the kitchen table and shoves his hands deep in his pockets. “Go back to New York. Go live your wonderful life. You’re not stuck with me anymore.”

David wants to do everything in his power to erase the last ten minutes, but it’s impossible. He can’t find the words to mend it all. Instead, he slips the ring back on his finger, trades its spot on the table with Patrick’s key, and walks out of the apartment. 

His finger screams in pain the whole way home. He ignores it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, then. Thank you for reading this hefty chapter, you can come yell at me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) over on tumblr!


	9. Chapter 9

_ One of the most astounding things about soulmates, I believe, is their ability to know where their partner is by just the slightest feeling. Think about where soulmates meet for the first time; wherever it may be, they are drawn there for a reason. Places hold significance for soulmates, they are not random. The pair did not stumble in accidentally. _

_ Now, I argue that any two people who know each other well enough -- parents and children, twins, the closest of friends -- can find one another by intuition alone, or based on their patterns, but soulmates surpass that.  _

_ A red string stretches, tangles, and knots, but it never breaks. It is indeed a phantom thread.  _

_ While conducting my research, I have asked the same questions: Do the scars bother you? Do you ever share emotions or physical pain? Are you happy knowing you have a soulmate? One couple I spoke to years ago said they could each close their eyes and find their other half guided alone by a gentle tugging and the irritation coming from their right-hand little finger. _

_ I am an old man; I have come to terms that I do not have a soulmate. My fascination began because of my grandparents, who were together from the age of eighteen until my grandfather’s death. They were soulmates by definition with matching red rings on each of their fingers, always proudly showing them off.  _

David chucks the book as hard as he can against the wall with a grunt. It’s not a hardcover, and it’s thin, consisting of maybe a hundred pages, so it doesn’t give him the loud smack of satisfaction like a hefty five-hundred page novel would. But it’s something.

He’s been torturing himself by reading it this past week, picking random pages and rifling through the words until he’s near tears in a mix of frustration and sadness. 

Patrick hasn’t contacted him, and David’s barely been able to focus on work. When his father asked about his decision with the director’s position in New York, David told him he was still thinking about it in a short tone and stormed off. 

Stevie knew immediately that something was wrong when he refused to get out of bed the next morning. So, in her typical way, Stevie let him sulk for twenty-four hours before physically dragging him to the motel. She shoved a cup of coffee and an egg sandwich in his hands and took his apartment key so he didn’t crawl back into the dark hole that had become his bedroom.

The last few days have just involved David meandering about on the computer, huffing and puffing, before succumbing to the vacant bed in his sister’s room. Stevie at least allowed that much.

Alexis claims he’s wallowing, David claims she’s being a bitch. 

But he does feel like a mess; his face is oily, his hair probably looks like a rat’s nest, and his eyes feel heavy. Alexis threw a pack of eye patches at him, but they’re sitting on the nightstand untouched. 

“David, might I have a word?” His mother waltzes through the doorway in a puffy white number and black tights, silver jewelry adorning her wrists and neck, a pair of fingerless leather gloves on her hands. 

He grumbles, eyes trained on the ceiling. 

She swipes at him. “David!” 

“What?” He pushes himself up on his elbows. “What could you possibly want? I’m  _ busy.”  _

His mother tilts her head to the side. “Yes, you clearly are! Wallowing about over your beau!” 

“I already told Alexis that I’m not wallowing,” he retorts, closing his eyes. “Please, just let me sleep.”

She ignores him in favor of plopping right down beside him. David sits up fully, knowing well enough that she was just going to bug him until he did. 

“Darling, when was the last time you applied any concealer?” She asks, extending the last few syllables. 

David pats his under eyes. “Um, I don’t...I don’t normally use it.”

His mother tsks. “It would be of benefit if you did. Something to really hide those sad dark rings--”

“Okay,” he snaps, “are you here to critique your only son or did you actually need something?”

Delicately, she places a hand on his own and her face cracks to show a kind of sincerity that is rare for Moira Rose. “Your Patrick is very patient.”

David steadies himself. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, for one, David, you are quite easily startled.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Loud, panicked, you do have a flair for the dramatics,” she lists, “which you do get from Mummy.” 

He stares at her blankly for a moment before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh my god…”

“But he waits for you.” Her posture eases from its tall, holier-than-thou stature and for once, David really sees his mother. Soft eyes, a real but pursed smile, something very human. “And he will continue to wait for you because he understands you.”

David swallows thickly, blinking away the tears that begin to well-up in his eyes. He clears his throat unattractively. “I don’t know,” he whispers.

His mother turns toward him fully, now, her hands squeezing his own. “David, please.” He meets her gaze, the crease between his brows heavy. “Do you have any qualms about spending the rest of your days with him?”

David squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t have any  _ qualms,”  _ he says, “We’re just two...very different people. It wasn’t meant to be.”

“I don’t know if I believe that,” she says on an exhale, her head angled. “Your father and I are two very different people, and we make it work every day.” 

He humphs. “We want different things,” he reasons lamely. “I ruined it all anyway.” 

“Even so, that darling Patrick only craves you.” She ignores David’s semi-revolted expression and adds, “He loves you, and why you won’t allow yourself to let him love you or to love him back just as fiercely, David, is...well, it’s astonishing.”

David hauls himself off the bed on the opposite side, beginning to pace the length of the room with his hands up by his already raised shoulders. “Patrick deserves someone who isn’t going to screw everything up!” 

His mother remains perched on the bed while he unravels bit by bit. 

“I have completely ruined the only good relationship I ever had because I put my foot in my mouth,” David exclaims, pivoting back toward the door. 

“You have not foiled it.”

“I have!” He stops, his hands set firmly on his hips. “Patrick deserves someone good--”

“David,” she cuts him off sternly, her blue eyes somehow darkening. “You are  _ good.  _ You might have been subservient in the past, but you have grown into a wonderful young man.” 

He scoffs, “You’re my mother. You have to say that.” 

When she doesn’t say anything, just gives him a look, David rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he mutters, “I need to shower, so if you could please--”

“Patrick is your soulmate.” 

David nearly trips over his own two feet. He whips around to look at his mother, her expression, though kind, is clearly serious. 

“Did Alexis put you up to this?” 

“No.” She shakes her head and stands. 

David watches as she begins to pull off the glove on her right hand, tugging on each finger until it slips off and she sets it on the bed. His stomach knots as she sticks up her right pinky finger to show a faded old mark, a pinkish-white ring. He immediately feels cold. 

His mother twists her hand around, pinky up in the air as she does so. “You and I were always very similar,” she says simply.

“W-what does that have to do with your finger?” He asks dumbly, gesturing to it bodily. 

“Oh, don’t be so dense, David! I’ve known about your own ring for a long time now.” 

“Because of Alexis, right.” 

“No,” she says, “because you’re my son and I know you well enough. You see this all as bunkum, but I assure you it’s not.” His mother sighs, gathering her thoughts. “I do always know where your father is.”

David narrows a look at her. “That’s because you two have been married for forty years. You know everything about each other.”

“Well not everything,” she replies gently, “I still don’t know how your father continues to surpass expectations and astound me, and for that I am incessantly marveled.”

“Ew.” 

“Be that as it may, David...I always do locate him. Even if it is a subliminal knowing.” 

“If that’s so true, then how come I’ve never noticed yours before?”

His mother runs a finger over her pinky. “You must always remain pristine in the spotlight. I take the necessary precautions.”

“And yet you’ve never gotten any work done.”

“That’s just all-natural beauty and the embracement of oneself. You have skin like mine, dear. Your father could still use some help.”

David looks down at his socked feet, absently twisting at his pinky ring. Old habits do die hard. 

“Let this string of fate guide you as it has for your father and I all these years,” she recites airly, coming over to brace her hands on his shoulders. “You, my son, are very lucky to have a man that loves you so.” 

“Not much I can do to fix that,” David grumbles.

“Yes, you say that now,” she says before putting on her signature Moira Rose smile and returning to her usual posture. “Now go make yourself presentable and join your family for lunch.” 

She gives his cheek a pat and retrieves her glove. She catches herself on the doorframe as she leaves. “David? Your sister is quite lucky indeed to have found Theodore, but soulmates are so very rare.” She makes a fist, shakes it resolutely and says, “Embrace it.” 

**

The café is quite busy for a late afternoon, but the Roses slide into their usual booth. David sits between the wall and Alexis, raking over the enormous menu for something that will actually curb his appetite. He settles on a burger, the idea of a greasy patty and salty fries sounding better than anything else right now. 

“David, have you thought any more about that position at The Whitney?” His father asks once Twyla has taken their orders. Alexis turns to him, a wary expression and her chin in her hand. 

“Oh, John, don’t push him!” His mother insists, picking up her wine glass. “He’ll decide on his own time.”

“I’m just helping my son with his career, Moira,” his father explains, removing his glasses. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, but--”

“Hey! So here’s something fun!” Alexis pipes up and David has never been so grateful for his sister’s interruptions. She waits for the table to fall silent before continuing. “I finished up my courses this week. I’ll be getting my degree by the end of the month.”

Their father’s face is alight at that announcement. “Oh, Alexis! Congratulations! How did you do?”

“I passed with flying colors,” she chimes, her chin held high.

David purses his lips. “So does that mean you got an A?”

“Um, actually, it means I got a B minus, but I still passed.” 

David pouts mockingly. “Aw, so thoroughly average, then?”

“That’s enough, David,” his father sighs and directs his attention back to Alexis. “We’re very proud of you, sweetheart.”

“Yes we  _ are,”  _ their mother singsongs in agreement. 

Alexis wears a look of pride and smiles at the three of them.

The group falls back into their nonsensical small talk, but David only pays half attention. He zones out, his mother’s words from earlier bouncing around his head like the marble of a pinball machine as he swirls random patterns on the tabletop. 

David glances down at his ringed finger, the pinkish loop hidden beneath the silver metal and moves on to Alexis. Her hands are manicured, scarless, and lightly freckled. His mother is wearing her gloves again, so David can’t see the faint line she waved around earlier but he stares at the leather as if he’ll develop some kind of x-ray vision and be able to see through it.

His father’s hands remain folded on the table for quite some time before he moves to sip from his water glass. David sees it then -- the thin ring of a scar on his right pinky, faded and worn but it’s there. 

How the hell did he miss this for as long as he did? 

Some nameless emotion takes hold of him and David sputters. He heaves out a breath and begins slapping Alexis’s arm to his right.

“Ow--what?  _ Ouch,  _ David! What the hell?” She flinches away, but he keeps slapping her.

“Move,” he demands breathily, “I have to leave,  _ move!”  _

She slides from the booth, and David stumbles out of it.

“David!” He spins around to see his mother holding the car keys out for him to take. She winks at him and he’s off. 

He heads straight for Patrick’s apartment, parking at an angle and barely remembering to lock the car as he charges up the stairs. 

_ Please be open, please be open... _

The door is closed when David reaches it. Admittedly disheartened, he stares at it, dumbfounded, before he starts knocking.

“Patrick?” He calls against the wood. “Patrick!” 

When there’s no answer after several minutes of knocking, David worries that he’ll start disturbing the neighbors. He checks the time on his phone. It’s early enough that Patrick might still be at work, so David pivots and bounds back down to the parking lot. 

With one quick sweep of it, Patrick’s car nowhere in sight, David drives to Ray’s. 

He knocks mostly out of courtesy when he gets there, but the storm door is unlocked.

“Ray?” He calls.

The man comes in with a jovial smile and greets David with a mix of friendly professionalism. “David! So good to see you! Are you here to inquire about closet organization?”

He waves a hand, “Yeah I don’t need that, thanks. I’m looking for Patrick.”

Ray’s smile falls, but barely. “Didn’t he tell you? He’s visiting his parents for a few days. He left this morning.”

David shakes his head. “What?”

“Yes!” The chipper attitude remains. “He should be back on Saturday. Now, are you  _ sure  _ there isn’t anything I can help you with? I can assure you I am very careful with expensive pieces of clothing.”

David doesn’t even want to humor that. “No, I was just looking for Patrick,” he frowns, “Thanks.” 

He slumps into the car and drives it back to the motel, his head falling to rest on the steering wheel when it’s parked. David groans, his eyes screwed tightly shut as he basks in the silence. There’s a slight creaking somewhere in the car, the telltale signs of an old clunky vehicle that disrupts David’s blank thoughts. It frustrates him. 

Stevie’s behind the desk in the office reading, and she doesn’t look up until the door clicks shut. She peers over her book and folds it closed immediately.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, setting it down.

David grumbles, scratching his head. “I can’t find Patrick.” 

“Did he run away?” 

He glares at her. “I don’t know, Stevie!” He snaps. David takes a breath and asks, much calmer, “Have you heard from him?”

“No,” she replies honestly with a shake of her head. “The last time I saw him was two days ago at the general store, but that’s it.” 

David wrings his hands together. “Did he say anything about visiting his parents?”

“No,” she says again with her brows knitting together, “he didn’t.” 

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I really need to talk to him,” he grumbles, “I need to apologize. I was an idiot.” 

Stevie laughs shortly. “I already knew that. Have you tried calling him?”

“I need to do this in person.” David drags his lips between his teeth as he thinks, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“Why can’t you just wait until he comes back?” Stevie asks.

David releases a wet laugh and sniffs. “Because I’m afraid he won’t,” he admits in a whisper. “And then I won’t be able to let him know that I believe everything and that I--” He inhales deep, his shoulders rising and falling with the breath. “I love him,” David says, a smile dragging across his lips, and it feels so good to finally say. He feels a little weightless. “I love him.” 

Stevie’s beaming, her head falling forward. She brushes the hair out of her eyes. “You really  _ are  _ an idiot, David Rose,” she says, but it’s said lovingly. “So you believe the whole soulmate thing?”

David starts. “How-how did you--”

“Alexis has been chewing my ear off about it for months,” she explains. “I’ve known as long as she has. I mean,” Stevie cocks her head to one side, “even a blind old lady can tell how in love the two of you are. It’s gross, but I’m happy for you.” 

David doesn’t know whether to smile or cry, so he does both, shaking his head up toward the ceiling. “I need to find him,” he concludes.

“Do you even know where his parents live?” Stevie asks in a careful manner. 

“No.” David slaps his hand against his sides and it comes to him. “Yes. Hapland Grove, it’s a few hours away…Patrick told me when he first moved here.”

“Take my car.” 

David blinks. “What?”

Stevie tosses her keys to him, and David surprises himself when he catches them. “Take my car and go find Patrick and tell him you love him like this is one of your stupid romcoms!”

David puts a finger up as if to say romcoms aren’t stupid but stops himself. He runs around the desk and hugs Stevie. It’s few and far between for them, and the times they have hugged in the past were usually a one-way street. Sometimes they’re even a little bit drunk.

But Stevie hugs him back with equal tightness, pushing him away after a few seconds. “Go, dammit!”

David floors it back to their apartment, barreling through the door to get his bag. He shoves a single change of clothes into it, for once in his life not even bothering to be meticulous about his outfit choices. 

There’s a hollow clatter against the bathroom tile as David hastily throws his toothbrush into a side pocket. The circular, flat tin of fading balm sits glinting under the lights. David bends down to pick it up.

The stuff never even worked. Whether the scar was actually physical or had some kind of magical properties, it really didn’t matter now.

He gives the tin a quick squeeze as he parts ways with it, tossing it in the trash beside the vanity. If Brenda ever asks, David will just lie and say he was allergic or something. 

He throws the bag in the car, plugs Hapland Grove into the GPS on his phone, and gets the hell out of Schitt’s Creek.

**

David is almost three hours into his drive and massaging a cramp in his calf when he realizes he has no fucking idea where Patrick’s parents  _ actually  _ live. He swears a few times, a fist banging against the dashboard as he pulls into a gas station. 

Not that he wasn’t expecting to, but David’s relieved to see that he actually has cell service as he dials Patrick. He gets his voicemail multiple times before he just decides to send him a text.

**_[6:56 P.M.]_ **

**_hi, i’m sorry i tried calling you but you didn’t answer. i was stupid, i should have believed you, i should have believed my sister. call me, please._ **

Whether or not the text goes through, David doesn’t care to check. He’s far too antsy and needs to keep driving. He’s flying blind here, sure, but he needs to keep going; he’ll figure the rest out when he gets into town. He’ll find Patrick in the end. He’s going to, he  _ has  _ to.

The GPS system takes him off the highway half an hour later and through a bunch of winding sideroads until he passes a big, forest-green sign.

_ Welcome to Hapland Grove est. 1892 _

David’s stomach coils with nerves as he drives past, his eyes trained dead ahead of him. It’s dark, the sun nearly disappearing behind the tree line as he drives through a charming town filled with shops and restaurants that he can imagine Patrick frequenting as a teenager. His lips curl upward at the thought. 

Navigation must cut out at some point, because he hasn’t been given any direction for at least ten minutes. He quickly glances at his phone, but the screen shows an error message. 

David’s soon lost again, circling through the town looking for something that might direct him. He almost causes an accident when he slams on his brakes in front of a library, some lady honking her horn behind him, a searing itch in his finger making him jump. 

“Fuck me, okay then,” David grumbles to himself, pinching the skin. 

He keeps going, slowly, now, and he swears there’s something pulling on his pinky. David wiggles it, brushing off the notion that he might just be going insane, and for the first time he listens to everything he’s read. 

_ Phantom thread, phantom thread, phantom thread...guided alone by a gentle tugging...A red string stretches tangles, knots but never breaks… _

David has to gasp a little as those words run through his head. He’s soon making left and right turns down streets he’s never been on like he’s known them his whole life, and then, after nearly ten minutes of being pulled by what David once believed was utter bullshit, he’s parking in the driveway of a charming white home with a wrap-around porch. The lights in the front windows are on, and Patrick’s silver Toyota is parked in the driveway in front of him.

And there, under the bright porch light, David can read the plaque:  _ 509 Hemlock Way. _

_ 509. _

Something hits David square in the gut. That number, he places it now, holds a fucking  _ lot  _ of meaning _.  _ The bar in New York where he met Patrick? Bar 509. And Patrick’s childhood home, placed not sixty feet in front of him? It has the number 509 next to the door and on the mailbox.

David could cry right now. A number, a random  _ fucking  _ number to him, that clearly holds so much meaning to Patrick.  _ That’s  _ why he suggested going to that bar with his friends that night, that’s why Patrick said he felt drawn to it, why it felt important. Who could have guessed that a number would bring so much comfort to a person? It’s bringing some weird kind of comfort to David right now. 

_ Places hold significance for soulmates, they are not random. The pair did not stumble in accidentally. _

David releases a long breath through thin lips and steps out as the front door opens. 

Patrick walks out, his hands shoved in his pockets. Even in the dark with just the porch lights on, David can see his wide eyes and awestruck expression.

“I’m sorry,” David calls out in a small voice. “I’m so sorry.” It’s taking everything for him to not rush over to him.

Patrick strides across the lawn, his head shaking. “What are you doing here, David? How did you find me?”

“Ray said you were visiting your parents,” David replies timidly, “You once told me you lived here, and I remembered the picture your mom gave you, that sign was in the background, but I didn’t remember the exact address until I pulled up,” he points to the plaque hanging by the door and Patrick glances at it. “I’m so sorry,” he says again. 

He watches as Patrick’s posture relaxes, his hands coming out of his pockets as his head tilts to the side. “David…”

“I believe it.” David removes his ring, sets it on his middle finger, and holds up his pinky. “Everything. All of it. Navigation cut out for me a while back and I felt like I was being pulled to where you were.”

“It starts itching,” Patrick confirms, rubbing at his knuckles like he always does. 

He sighs, hands wringing. “I’m an idiot.” 

Patrick laughs shortly, “You are.” 

“I’m not leaving,” David says suddenly. “I’m not going to accept that job. My life is with you in Schitt’s Creek, Patrick. Unless I’ve completely ruined everything, then I get it, but I’m not going back to New York.” A hiccuping sob escapes him. “I love you, Patrick. You’re my soulmate, and I am so sorry for not believing it sooner.” 

Patrick smiles then, broadly, brightly, and rushes over. He pulls David in by his cheeks and kisses him, a hand settling on the back of his neck and David melts into it. 

He never wants to go another day without kissing Patrick, without holding and being held by Patrick. David never wants to go another day without saying he loves him, because he does.

He really fucking does love Patrick Brewer. 

This force of a man, with a solid and steady heart, is just so  _ goddamn _ beautiful it makes David’s chest ache.

He pulls away first, but Patrick’s hands find his between them. “I couldn’t live without you even if I tried, Patrick,” he whispers in the minute space between them, “and I was starting to worry I was going to have to. I’m so sorry…”

Patrick strokes a finger over the bare skin of David’s pinky, a dulled nail scratching against it. “I was, too.” His reply is a little wet.

“This is a stupid fucking scar, and I’m not covering it with a stupid fucking ring anymore,” David declares, and it’s enough to make Patrick kiss the point of origin. 

_ Don’t ever stop doing that,  _ he thinks.

“I told my parents,” Patrick announces, the faintest bit of strain in his voice and David’s heart swells. “I told them everything. About Rachel and why it never worked, about you and that you’re my soulmate.”

“I’m so proud of you,” he breathes and closes the space between them to hug him tightly, Patrick dropping a kiss to David’s neck. 

They sway on the front lawn in the dusk, David with his face pressed into the crook of Patrick’s neck and Patrick’s arms linked tight around him until the front door opens. A couple emerges: Patrick’s parents, a woman with a brown bob and kind eyes that David’s all too familiar with and a taller man with grey hair and similar features to the one in his arms.

If the looks in their eyes are anything to go by, they know exactly who the stranger on their front lawn is. 

“Everything okay out here, boys?” The woman’s voice rings out. 

“Yeah, uh--” Patrick clears his throat, his arm secured around David’s waist. “Mom, Dad. This is David Rose.” He turns to David then, eyes locking on his. “The love of my life.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I hope you've enjoyed this story. Just one more chapter left for us to go.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, you can find me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's bring this story to a close, shall we? 
> 
> I huge shout out to Rachel [@fishyspots](fishyspots.tumblr.com) who was my beta throughout writing this fic. She dealt with me running numerous ideas by her, and shot some right back at me. Rachel, I truly cannot thank you enough, I mean it.
> 
> If you have the chance, please, _please_ check out some of [Rachel's work](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishyspots/pseuds/fishyspots) here on Ao3, she's an absolutely incredible writer through and through! 
> 
> This is my longest fic to-date, and I'm incredibly proud of that. It's the longest thing I've written, period. 
> 
> To [Amy,](roguebabyinyourstore.tumblr.com), [Cass,](destatinicky.tumblr.com) [Em,](patrickbrewsky.tumblr.com), and [Megan](stuck-on-your-heart.tumblr.com) who also dealt with me throwing ideas at them as well as the very early drafts and concepts of this story.
> 
> If you've stuck with me along the way, thank you so, so much. Every comment I've read has made me more and more delighted. 
> 
> Now, without further ado...

Along the main drag of Schitt’s Creek is a store with the numbers 225 mounted above the door, and it belongs to David Rose.

Rather, it belongs to David Rose and Patrick Brewer — his soulmate, the love of his life, and every time he looks down at his left hand he’s reminded,  _ his husband.  _

_ God,  _ does David love saying that. 

He wears five rings in total most days; four gold engagement rings modeled after his old silver ones and his wedding band. It may seem ostentatious to some, but David wears them with pride. 

The engagement rings are fairly mobile; some days he wears them all on his left hand and others all on his right, but never over the scar on his right pinky. David doesn’t cover it anymore, in fact he displays it proudly. Patrick will run a careful finger over it, kiss it, reminding David every day how loved and how lucky he is.

David sighs contentedly as he walks up to the brick storefront. The air is crisp, and there’s the faintest smell of damp leaves and pine being carried through the breeze. The trees have changed color now; reddish-orange and yellow before they turn brown for winter, their canopies looking like oil paintings in the sunlight.

Autumn holds so much nostalgia with its muted tones and cider and the scent of cloves and cinnamon. Long walks hand-in-hand, pure unbridled happiness.

But for David, autumn holds so much more.

It’s when they opened Rose Apothecary, just over a year into their relationship, the preceding months filled with scouting for vendors (Brenda, for one), putting together contracts, and shaping the vacant space into what it is today — welcoming and bright. 

Local products stock their shelves, sustainable goods and things that David now swears by, things they have in their own home. He feels more fulfilled by this little store in this tiny town than he ever did in New York with the gallery. There’s a sense of something much more personable when he talks to their vendors, to their customers. The gallery was full of pretentious and shallow people but here, David can really reach people who feel like they’re living. 

_ Maybe,  _ he thinks,  _ this is what it's like to be truly passionate. _

There are talks of incorporating workshops, too, run by some of their vendors, and Patrick suggested an open mic which David didn’t  _ fully  _ veto.

“You just need some convincing,” Patrick had said, “It’ll be fun!” 

Questionable event ideas from his husband aside, Rose Apothecary has truly become their pride and joy. 

Autumn is when they got engaged. On a morning so similar to this one, Patrick woke him with soft kisses and gentle murmurings of his name. David cracked his eyes open in the sliver of bright sunlight filtering in through the curtains to find his boyfriend kneeling beside the bed. He had pawed for him blindly, his eyes drifting shut again, in an attempt to hug Patrick close and catch a few more hours of rest.

David was sleep-addled and warm, and didn’t register what Patrick was actually doing until he procured a long velvet box from somewhere under the mattress and urged him to stay awake. He carded a hand through David’s hair, scratching at his scalp and nearly lulling him back to sleep. Patrick wedged the box open to reveal the set of four polished gold rings.

There was a half-slurred teary mess of “Really? Are you sure? Yes, yes, I love you!” from David, pulling his  _ fiancé  _ into a kiss, holding him close and matching each other’s laughter. 

“Thank you for not asking me in front of a bunch of people,” David had whispered once the bands were slid in place on his left hand, “I hate other people.”

Patrick had chuckled and said, “You once told me that public proposals were tacky. I’m just glad I didn’t spring for the flash mob.”

David’s family and Stevie were ecstatic, showering them both with well-wishes and Alexis immediately asking her brother to hurry up and figure out the theme so she could find a dress.

They drove to Hapland Grove to tell Patrick’s parents in person. David got along well with the Brewers from the start, Marcy having wrapped him up in a hug the night they met and thanked him for making their son so happy. They welcomed David into their family with open arms and warm hearts.

Autumn is when they got married, on a beautiful day a year after getting engaged. They exchanged their vows, surrounded by everyone they loved, in an outdoor ceremony beneath fiery leaves and clear blue skies. Alexis gave David away, Stevie was his maid of honor, and though it wasn’t their initial choice, both him and Patrick were moved by the officiating of one Moira Rose.

She sat them both down one day, ignoring David’s wariness, and announced that she wanted to be the one to declare them as husbands. (“I am asking for  _ one  _ thing as your mother, David!” “What if Patrick’s mom wants to officiate?” “Oh, no, no, no. She’ll be crying too much to do that.”)

Afterward, once promises were made and cheers erupted, David just kept saying it:  _ husband, husband, husband.  _ He said it all night and hasn’t stopped saying it since. 

The bell above the door rings, echoing out and fading into the vacant shop. David stands tall, scanning around for any signs of his husband. They’re supposed to be closed today. 

“Where are you?” He calls out, a lilt in his voice.

There’s some creaking, the beat of footsteps on old wood, as Patrick steps through the curtain to the stockroom wearing a wide smile. “How’d you know where to find me?”

David gives his head a shake, eyes closing. “I always know where to find you.” 

It’s true, though. David has taken a lot of pride in knowing where Patrick is. He doesn’t go looking for him all of the time, only when he disappears without warning, and they’re usually always together anyway. But the light tug in his finger does wonders. 

The time his husband seriously needed to blow off steam, stressed from work, David was able to find him hiking a few miles south of town. He waited patiently for Patrick at the end of the trail, arms crossed as he leaned against the side of his car.

Patrick heaved a big sigh and fell right into David’s waiting arms, forehead pressed into his shoulder. “You’re miraculous, David Rose,” he’d muttered, exhausted from the hike and life’s other factors, and David just tapped Patrick’s pinky knowingly.

“It’s our store, I’m always here,” Patrick replies teasingly. 

“Don’t try to undermine this.” David flicks his bare pinky out, moving his left arm from where it’s hidden behind his back to reveal a bouquet of sunflowers. “Happy anniversary, honey.”

Patrick huffs out a little laugh. “Two great minds,” he muses, “Yours are already in a vase in the back. Happy anniversary.” He kisses him soundly; it’s sweet and still feels new each and every time. “Three years,” he murmurs.

“I give us another two,” David replies with his brows arched high.

“David.” 

“I’m kidding! I won’t say it anymore, I’m sorry!” 

“Uh-huh,” Patrick smirks, “You know you’re stuck with me, David Rose.”

“Oh, happily.”

Patrick drops a kiss to David’s scar, a simple gesture that still completely sends him. 

David gives his hand a squeeze, “Excited about tonight?”

“Yeah, my parents are getting everything set up with your sister.”

David screws his eyes shut. “She’s going to make our backyard look insane!” He moans.

“I’m not too sure about that. My mom’s there to reign her in.”

“Okay, but your lovely mother has never dealt with Alexis in one of her decorating moods.” David shakes out his hands, remembering his sister’s bedroom from ages twelve to fourteen — fluffy pink pillows and a lavender carpet and just  _ so much  _ floral decor. “She can be a lot.”

“David,” Patrick takes his face in his hands, “try not to worry, okay? Let’s just trust our families with everything tonight. Your sister can handle decorating with my mom, my dad’s making a few extra things while Stevie picks up the rest of the food, and your parents are bringing a cake—“

“The naked style almond cake with raspberry filling and—“

“—Whipped cream, David, yes.” Patrick reassures, his tone easing the curling knot in his stomach. “It’s not our wedding day, it’s just an anniversary dinner with our family. If something goes a little bit sideways, it’s absolutely fine.” 

David holds his breath for a beat, exhaling out sharply. “Fine,” he puts up a finger, “but I still don’t see why we couldn’t all go to dinner like we did last year. Or just you and me. It’s our  _ third  _ wedding anniversary, Patrick.”

Dinner the prior year had been a slight ordeal, what with Stevie being out of town for work and hitting traffic on the way back in, and his mother being in one of her dramatic moods rendering her almost unable to attend. She got a little too sentimental after several glasses of wine. 

But Patrick, ever the level-headed man that he is, assured David everything would work out well and it did. Just like he is now. 

Their first anniversary involved sporadic celebrations with their families, but they spent three days in a lakeside cabin alone. Just the two of them, a lot of lazing about — and a lot of sex — without interruption. Patrick jokingly suggested skinny dipping in the lake, to which David declined with much reservation about grimy fish, murky waters, and not wanting to get hypothermia. 

“Because this is our  _ first  _ anniversary in the new house,” Patrick explains and okay,  _ yes,  _ maybe he’s right.

They moved into a cottage-style home just a few months ago, less than a mile outside of town. It’s wrapped in stone and has a beautiful backyard, perfect for hosting parties. They fell in love with the house the second they stepped foot inside, and it’s been a passion project ever since; they’ve spent months redoing the kitchen, setting up a breakfast nook, and turning the third bedroom into a home office — a place for David to sketch and Patrick to work on background things for the store.

Music fills the open spaces, bright sunlight bleeds through the windows every morning. It’s the small things that make it theirs, that make it  _ their home.  _

“We’re going away next week anyway,” Patrick adds, pulling David in closer by the hips. His eyes get just the slightest bit darker. “We’ll have four whole days to ourselves.”

David’s lips twist as he thinks about it, his stomach flip-flopping at the reminder of all the privacy they’d have. Whereas their house is pretty central for everyone, his parents coming over unannounced for dinner and the few times Stevie’s walked in on them, they’re not always allowed the complete privacy they want. Granted, Stevie has a key, David’s parents  _ do not.  _

The open door policy they created early on quickly turned into an  _ “open door with some warning, please” _ policy.

“Can’t wait.”

**

David is able to release the tension in his jaw when he and Patrick get home; Alexis has  _ not  _ ruined their backyard. His hydrangeas are still intact, thank god.

By the looks of it, with Marcy and Clint’s help, she’s actually turned it into a bit of a tasteful wonderland. Decidedly country chic, if anything, with their long wooden farm table adorned with a muted green-grey runner down the middle, placemats of a contrasting cream, matte flatware. 

Edison bulbs are strung up and an additional few tables are lined with food. Patrick’s old bar cart is full, coupe glasses and champagne at the ready, and a bottle of Woodford Reserve which Patrick cracks open with his father. 

The whole sight makes David’s heart sing a bit. “Thank you,” he says to Alexis who gives him a triumphant roll of her shoulders, “It looks amazing.”

“Would I ever steer you wrong?” She asks, immediately putting a hand up to stop David. “Don’t answer that.”

“Still. Everyone else should be here soon, so I’m going to go get changed.”

“Hey—wait!” Alexis reaches out for him, a hand on his arm. “I kind of want to tell you something,” she says, voice high and one eye closed. She gives a quick once-over of the yard, noting the scarce amount of people, and tugs David toward her.

David’s eyes grow wide. “Alexis, if you’re about tell me you’re pregnant—“

_ “No!”  _ She growls, looking offended. “That’s  _ rude,  _ David! Don’t jump the gun!” 

He stifles his laughter and swats at her arm. “Alright, fine. What?”

“So…now that things have kind of settled for me and Ted in Toronto,” Alexis starts timidly, one wrist bent downwards, her other hands pulling at her fingers as they bounce with every word, “and both of our jobs are steady and we’re good, we’re healthy, um…” David watches as she drags her teeth into her bottom lip.”We’re talking about getting engaged. Like, within the next year.”

Alexis tails the end of her announcement with a sheepish smile, one hand coming up to play with her earring.

“Alexis…”

“But don’t tell Mom and Dad!” She nearly shouts, her hands flapping around. “I mean, I know you won’t but if they find out, they’ll just blow everything out of proportion. I also really don’t want them taking the attention away from you guys today.” 

David just hugs her, linking his arms at her back and squeezing tight for a long moment. “I’m so happy you’re happy,” he whispers to her.

Alexis clings to the fabric of his shirt. “Thank you.” She pushes him away from her playfully. “Go get ready. You’ve been wearing that shirt all day; you’re probably gross and sweaty.”

David scowls at her. “I don’t  _ sweat,  _ Alexis.” 

“If you want to believe that,” she chides with one shoulder raised, and skips off to finish setting the table.

He spends roughly half an hour before dinner doing a full routine and changing, and when David steps out of the bathroom through a cloud of spritzed cologne, he’s met with Patrick perched on the edge of their bed. He’s switched from his earlier crewneck to a dark blue button up, the collar undone several notches.

David has to really hold himself back and not pounce on his husband and nip at his exposed neck and chest. A Herculean feat, really.

Patrick nods to him, eyes trained on David’s shirt. “Is that new?”

“It’s definitely not new.” David rolls his body a little, hands splayed out at his sides. “I just haven’t worn it in years.”

“I like it, it’s very sparkly.” Patrick stands, gliding a hand over David’s chest and into the panels of silver sequins. He pats it twice. “Everyone’s here, but I wanted to wait for you.” 

“Uh-oh, did I take too long?” 

“Maybe for Stevie. She already went ahead and opened a bottle of Prosecco, but everyone else seems fine.”

“Remind me again why we invite her to these things,” David rolls his eyes.

“Because she’s our friend, David, and we both know you wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

“She’s a goblin who steals our champagne,” he retorts despite his smile. 

Patrick hums, his eyes flitting down toward David’s lips. “We should probably go be gracious hosts before someone physically drags us outside.”

“Wouldn’t want that.” David wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck. “You know, the last time you said something to me about being a ‘gracious host’ you kissed me.”

“Did I now?” Patrick’s eyes narrow playfully. “When was this?”

“Your housewarming.” 

“It’s almost like we’ve come full circle,” he whispers, moving infinitesimally closer. 

“Almost.” David dips down and kisses him, the space between them nonexistent. 

Patrick breaks it all too soon. “We should go,” he mutters against his lips. 

David lets out a whine, “Are you  _ sure  _ we can’t hide up here for a little longer?” 

“Sorry.” 

He digs his fingers into Patrick’s shoulders, coming to terms with the fact that he’s definitely not going to have any private time with his husband for the rest of the evening. He’ll take what he can get.

**

Much like their wedding, there’s a glass of champagne in David’s hand, and though he doesn’t remember who gave it to him, he’s certainly not complaining. His father is entertaining the Brewers at the opposite end of the table, and David has to bite back a laugh at how bewildered Clint looks; his father’s storytelling can be quite dry and repetitive.

Stevie takes the seat beside him, her plate full, and raises her glass to his. “Happy three years,” she chimes.

“Thank you.” David smiles into the brim of his glass, sweet floral notes hitting his nose. “When do you leave?”

She gives him a look. “Trying to get rid of me?”

“Of course, always.” 

Stevie picks a grape off her plate and pops it in her mouth. “Monday night. I’m heading to Buffalo for two days and then back up to Hamilton to finalize some stuff at a motel there before we open.” 

“Sounds glamorous,” David half-teases, knowing full well that Stevie’s proud of where the Rosebud Motel Group has gone these last few years. She travels further than his father, who stays somewhat local and works the old Johnny Rose Magic.

Stevie points at him, “I’m taking you with me one of these days. It’s been awhile since I did, and some of these places are actually pretty nice.”

“Yes, not at all like a rundown truck stop.” 

“You know that’s not true,” she retorts, kicking his foot under the table. “You’ve seen some of the motels. I was more so referring to the towns they’re in. There are some nice hikes, David.” 

He grimaces, his teeth bared. “If you’re going to talk to anyone about hiking, it should be my husband.” He gestures to where Patrick is sitting with David’s mother looking charmed by her despite the fact that she was definitely already on the verge of tears, like she is every anniversary. “And you and I both know you don’t do physical activity.” 

“Excuse you, I moved a couch on my own last week,” she scoffs, “That has to count for something.”

“A whole  _ three _ feet? That counts for next to nothing.” 

Stevie rolls her eyes. “Still did it by myself.” She sounds triumphant about it.

There’s a long enough lull in their conversation for David to catch Alexis’s eye where she’s leaning into Ted’s shoulder. She gives him her signature mess of a double-eyed wink, which kind of pains David to see from time to time, but it’s very much his sister and he loves her for it. He tucks his lips inward and there’s this sense of pride that swells up once again, something he’s more used to now than ever before.

Seeing his sister happy means more to David than he’d ever actually expected. All the years of yelling at each other over the stupid things siblings fight about are behind them now — at least partially. Knowing Alexis was safe after her years of careless galavanting was all he could really ask for. 

David would go to war for Alexis. They both have, and they will continue to do so.

Stevie popping the cork off a new bottle of Prosecco pulls him back to the present. She lets out a yelp that dissolves into a fit of laughter, and David shakes his head, completely unfazed. Foam starts bubbling out of the spout, and he tips the bottle over his glass so it doesn’t spill all over the table and ruin all of Alexis and Marcy’s hard work.

“Da- _ vid!”  _ His mother’s voice rings out. She walks up with Patrick smiling on her arm, a bit misty-eyed with her usually pristine makeup smudged beneath her eyes. “I was just telling your sweet Patrick how fortuitous it is for you to ring in  _ three  _ glorious years of betrothal in your new home!” 

He pulls Patrick to sit beside him at the head of the table. “Mom, you really don’t have to openly  _ weep  _ every time—“

“Hush, David!” She sits down beside them. “Do you know how very difficult it was to encapsulate a love that will truly transcend lifetimes into mere words?” His mother reaches to cup his cheek, her head tilting. “To not only watch my son marry his soulmate, but to officiate it…You two are positively radiant,” she drawls, moving to touch Patrick’s cheek next. 

Patrick dips his head down bashfully, a light blush tinging his cheeks. David’s mother does this every year; she gets overly sentimental and, in her fabricated and very extravagant way, tells them both how much she loves them. 

David sometimes wants to chalk it up to the fact that she began directing plays at the Elmdale Art House and has reconnected with her acting roots, but he knows that’s just Moira Rose.

He reaches over and trails a thumb over the faded scar on his husband’s pinky until Patrick leans his head against his.

“You’ll be reaching the forty year milestone like your father and I in no time!” She adds eventually with a sniff.

“We’ll take our time, thanks,” David laughs. He’d like to not rush his own mortality, but he does look forward to a lifetime with Patrick.

“I’m just being truthful!” David’s awestruck when he sees his mother pull an actual fucking handkerchief from the breast pocket of her sparkling blazer to dab her eyes. “I see a lot of John and I in the two of you.” 

“Okay, Mom, I think it’s time for you to go sit with Dad—“ She hiccups, and David waves his hand to signal for his father. He immediately catches David’s drift and strides over.

“Moira, maybe it’s time we eat something?” His father smiles wide, hands braced on his wife’s shoulders. He plants a kiss to the crown of her head from behind. “That sounds nice, right, sweetheart?” 

Instead of complying, she reaches forward for Patrick’s hands and holds them tightly. “You do know we adore you so,” she says wetly, “and how honored we are to have you as part of our family, Patrick.”

David screws his face up, peeking at his husband through one eye. Patrick’s smiling, still a bit shy with his big eyes. He frees one hand from Moira’s death-like grasp and sets it atop hers. “I’m honored to be part of your family as well, Mr. and Mrs. Rose.” 

She lets out a soft  _ “Oh”  _ and hugs Patrick, then David.

When his mother is finally pried away, Stevie leans in to them both. “That was fun,” she smirks.

“You’ve seen her at Christmas, Stevie,” Alexis pipes up, a nail tapping the side of her coupe, “This was, like, completely mild in comparison.” 

Stevie’s eyebrows shoot up, “Ooh! Christmas is always fun!” She bounces a little in her seat, and David  _ swears  _ that his best friend is actually a child.

“Alexis,” he groans, “we’ve all seen Christmas. Do you not remember all those years Mom barely made it up the stairs without someone physically supporting her?”

“And last year, when she barely even made it to the couch,” Ted adds with a playful wince. It dissolves into nervous laughter. “Luckily, it was on the first floor.”

Stevie almost falls out of her seat as she cackles, no doubt remembering the debacle.

“Okay,” David reaches for her sloshing glass, “no more champagne for you.”

_ “No!”  _ Stevie downs the rest of her drink in one gulp before he can swipe it, and David makes a whining-laughing noise in the back of his throat as he lets his head fall back toward the sky.

“Aw, David.” Patrick presses his lips to his cheek and whispers a quiet, “I love you,” against it, and then again along his jawline. 

“Someone just keep the booze away from Stevie!” 

David studies the table, his mother’s overbearing sentimentality having rubbed off on him.

They’re surrounded by so many people who love them:

Patrick’s parents, whom David loves like his own, far too kind and oh so wonderful. Two of the sweetest people he’s ever met, aside from their son who David is truly grateful for. Marcy, who humors David’s love for cheesy romance films over tea and always shows up with the best baked goods, shows him a different kind of maternal love. And Clint, who always asks after the store, who has a sturdiness about him that David appreciates, and was so eager and so proud to learn more about his son’s sexuality. 

His own parents, who bought a house nearby, his father taking up gardening and his mother spending most warm mornings on their front porch watching; a kind of life that suits them well. His father, who looks so happy to be able to entertain and surround himself with good company again. His mother who, for all her extravagancies, continuously shows David and Alexis how much she cares.

His sister, wrapped up in the arms of her boyfriend, a guy who’s a bit of a dork but genuine, loving, and who would walk through fire for Alexis. Her soulmate-not-soulmate, Ted, the man who is absolutely perfect for her in every way, who will treat her right without ever being asked to do so. His sister, who continuously surprises him with what she can do, who he admires.

His best friend, right at his side like she always is, a complete powerhouse since coming into her own and proving to everyone again and again who Stevie Budd really is. His best friend who steals their alcohol and shares joints when they’re seriously needed and crashes on their sofa more often than not, but he loves it. The first person to really, really know David, the first person to stay.

And Patrick. David can’t believe he’s so lucky. He’s overcome with the amount of love he has for this man alone. Patrick, who taught him so much about himself, who continuously guides him. Who teases him and loves him and remains by his side. His jawline is soft, and he isn’t a towering man made of pure muscle, but he’s David’s. He’s  _ everything.  _ Patrick stands out amongst all others; he always will.

David is just…so in love with this man, he could burst.

They know each other inside and out. Patrick knows David’s darkest secrets and vice versa. He knows about Patrick’s competitive side, what sets him off, his routines,  _ his mouth guard.  _

They know how to make each other laugh, like when Patrick follows David around mercilessly, strumming his guitar and belting out random made-up verses. Or how David will attempt to roast professional athletes during a game and yell nonsense at the screen.

He gives a little sniff, blinking back tears and swallowing over the tightness at the base of his throat. He leans his head on Patrick’s shoulder, his husband’s hand coming up to rub at the center of his back, content, blissfully happy. 

**

It’s nearly midnight when Patrick finally crawls into bed. David is splayed out in the center of the mattress on top of the covers, dewy-faced and wearing a set of gel eye masks, a smile toying at his lips.

Leftovers have been packed away, set in the fridge downstairs — “Make sure you grab the cake!” “Yes, dear.” — their families sent off once David was half-asleep and buzzed, hanging off his husband.

The bed sags beside him, and without even opening his eyes David knows that Patrick is hovering over him.

“Is there something I can help you with, honey?”

“Just admiring my husband,” Patrick replies fondly, a smile evident in his voice. He pokes at an eye patch and David immediately swats his hand away. “And these lovely new accessories.”

“Stop it, I can’t take them off yet!” He continues to wave his hand blindly as Patrick laughs. 

David finally opens his eyes to see Patrick rubbing his fingers together. “They’re kind of slimy,” he states.

“You’re slimy.”

Patrick laughs again, “Okay, David,” and climbs on top of him to press his lips against David’s, soft and minty as he muffles his giggling. They’re pressed flush against each other, chest to chest, David’s hands finding purchase beneath Patrick’s tee until he pulls away, the space between their lips miniscule. “Do you know how happy you make me?”

“Patrick,” David warns mildly, “I’m still a little buzzed and  _ very  _ emotional from my mother’s somewhat drunken impromptu speech after dinner.” He raises his hand to rest at the base of Patrick’s neck. “I love you, so much.”

“Are you happy?” He asks, his tone wary. “Even though you’re not in New York? You don’t feel…stifled?”

David’s mouth hangs slightly open, a little lost for words. “I don’t feel ‘stifled,’” he mutters, “How could I?” He gets lost in Patrick’s warm, honey-brown eyes with their flecks of gold and whispers, “I’m so happy here. With you.” 

Patrick falls onto his side next to David, who takes his right hand. 

He brings Patrick’s pinky to his lips and kisses the scar. His stomach swirls, his own finger tingling. “So dumb,” he mutters against it.

Patrick nearly snorts, “Soulmates. Totally not a thing.”

“Oh, they absolutely are,” David replies, and he’s sure his heart is evident in his eyes as he says it. 

“You think so?” 

“Mh-hm. Yes.” David lets his hand brush over Patrick’s cheek, a hovering graze. “I’ve got one.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this little story! I cannot express how grateful I am to have had such warm and welcome feedback. 
> 
> Please come say hello to me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) over on tumblr! 
> 
> Ally

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading! You can find me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


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